LIBRARY 

OF  THE 

UNIVERSITY  OF  CALIFORNIA. 

Class 


c 


I  I '.•!•,'(>  1.T1 


SO    SHE    HK(iINS    TO    DANCK  " 


PEOPLE    WE    PASS 


STORIES  OF 

LIFE  AMONG    THE  MASSES   OF 
NEW  YORK  CITY 


BY    JULIAN    RALPH 


ILLUSTRATED 


NEW    YORK 

HARPER  &  BROTHERS  PUBLISHERS 
1896 


BY  JULIAN  RALPH. 


DIXIE ;   or,  Southern  Scenes  and  Sketches.     Illus 
trated.     Square  Svo,  Cloth.     (Just  Ready.) 

ON  CANADA'S  FRONTIER.     Illustrated.     Square 
Svo,  Cloth,  $2  50. 

OUR    GREAT    WEST.      Illustrated.      Square  Svo, 
Cloth,  $2  50. 

CHICAGO  AND  THE  WORLD'S  FAIR.    Illustrated. 
Svo,  Cloth,  $3  00. 

PUBLISHED  BY  HARPER  &  BROTHERS,  NEW  YOKK. 


Copyright,  1895,  by  HARPER  &  BROTHERS. 


Ail  riyhtt  reterved. 


TO 

MY  BEST  FRIEND 
ISABELLA  MOUNT  RALPH 


227649 


PKEFACE 

THE  first  seven  of  these  short  stories  were 
published  in  HAKPEE'S  MAGAZINE.  The  one 
called  "  Low  Dutch  and  High  "  is  here  put 
forth  for  the  first  time.  While  the  stories 
were  being  published  in  the  MAGAZINE,  one 
critic  quite  honestly  declared  that  he — or 
she— questioned  the  extent  of  the  author's 
familiarity  with  the  life  he  was  treating. 
On  the  other  hand,  a  talented  friend  wrote 
that  "  The  only  trouble  with  the  stories  is 
that  it  seems  as  though  the  author  must 
have  at  one  time  lived  in  a  tenement,  else 
he  could  not  describe  tenement  scenes  as 
he  does."  The  truth  does  not  hide  behind 
either  the  criticism  nor  the  praise. 

The  author  never  lived  in  any  other  tene 
ment  than  the  enormous  hive  called  Manhat 
tan  Island  ;  but  there  he  has  spent  nearly  all 
his  life,  and  there,  as  everywhere  else,  the 


vi  PREFACE 

lives  of  the  people  of  all  sorts  have  been 
more  studied  by  him  than  his  books.  Dur 
ing  more  than  twenty  years  as  a  reporter  on 
the  Sun,  his  duties  took  him  into  the  tene 
ments  and  among  the  tenement  folk  very, 
very  frequently.  They  led  him  to  attend 
weddings,  wakes,  funerals,  picnics,  excur 
sions,  and  dances,  as  well  as  to  witness  the 
routine  of  work -a- day  life  in  the  swarm. 
Other  men  who  have  been  interested  in  this 
strange,  abnormal  outgrowth  of  the  peculiar 
shape  of  the  island,  which  forces  our  poor  to 
crowd  in  tall  buildings,  have  written  of  this 
life  with  dramatic  ability  and  fine  art,  some 
times  with  absorbing  ingenuity,  at  the  cost 
of  probability  and  the  truth.  Others  have 
done  as  Avell  without  distorting  the  facts. 
These  tales  are,  in  the  main,  reflections  of 
scenes  that  have  been  actually  witnessed  and 
that  have  been  put  together  with  such  ability 

as  is  possessed  by 

THE  AUTHOR. 


CONTENTS 

PAGE 

THE  LINE-MAN'S  WEDDING 3 

THE  MOTHER  SONG 29 

LOVE  IN  THE  BIG  BAKKACKS 53 

A   DAY    OF   THE    PINOCHLE    CLUB     ....  77 

CORDELIA'S  NIGHT  OF  ROMANCE  .     .     .     .  105 

DUTCH  KITTY'S  WHITE  SLIPPERS  ....  131 

PETEY  BURKE  AND  HIS  PUPIL 157 

LOW  DUTCH  AND  HIGH  .          185 


THE  LINE- MAN'S  WEDDING 

WITH  my  good  friend  George  Fletcher,  of 
whom  there  may  be  more  to  say  in  another 
account  of  the  "  People  We  Pass,"  I  enjoyed 
the  adventure  here  set  forth.  It  was  the  wit 
nessing  of  an  East  Side  wedding,  which  was 
in  itself  remarkable,  and  which  afforded  a 
chance  for  a  close  -  range  study  of  a  phase  of 
tenement  life  which  was  yet  more  interesting. 
Joe,  my  friend's  apprentice,  had  obtained  his 
promise  that  he  would  some  da}^  call  upon  the 
lad's  mother,  who  was  grateful  for  something 
Fletcher  had  done  for  the  boy  quite  in  the 
way  of  business.  The  promise  had  been  long 
standing  when,  one  night  recently,  Joe  told 
his  employer  that  two  friends  of  his  sister 
were  to  be  married  at  his  home,  and  that  it 
would  be  a  great  honor  to  the  family  if  he 
were  present. 

u  Don't  be  the  least  afraid,"  said  Fletcher, 
i 


\4:  r/  ;  PEOPLE  WVE  PASS 

We  were  pursuing  our  way  between  tall 
frowning  walls  of  tenements.  We  noticed 
that  the  orderliness  of  their  lire -escapes  and 
windows  was  the  basis  of  a  grand  disorder  of 
pots,  pans,  quilts,  rugs,  rags,  and  human  heads. 
As  for  the  people,  few  were  on  the  pave 
ments.  "Don't  be  the  least  afraid,"  said  he; 
"  there's  nothing  except  contagious  diseases  to 
fear  in  these  streets.  They  are  the  safest  in 
town  to  walk  in ;  the  only  ones  where  the 
front  doors  are  left  unlocked  at  night.  As  for 
the  people,  they  are  what  we  all  sprang  from  ; 
they  are  what  America  is  made  of." 

The  next  time  you  are  in  the  neighborhood 
of  Grand  Street  and  the  Bowery  you  may  see 
the  region.  Turn  to  the  east  a  block  or  two, 
and  looking  along  Forsyth  Street,  to  which 
you  will  quickly  come,  you  will  see  little  Joe's 
home.  ''It  is  a  gigantic  five-story  double  ten 
ement.  It  has  the  words  "  Big  Barracks " 
painted  in  black  letters  on  a  white  ground 
on  one  side  near  the  top.  They  are  startling 
words  to  see  and  to  think  about,  for  whether 
the  landlord  had  them  painted  there  to  show 
his  defiance  of  decency,  or  whether  it  was  a 


depraved  sense  of  humor  which  prompted 
that  rich  barbarian's  act,  no  libel  was  prac 
tised.  Only  the  truth,  or  a  merciful  hint  of 
the  truth,  was  expressed  in  the  words.  Bar 
racks  they  are  within  those  walls,  and  for 
miles  and  miles  to  the  northward  of  them  rise 
blocks  after  blocks  of  other  barracks.  They 
are  worse  than  the  soldiers'  dwellings  to  which 
the  word  is  usually  applied.  They  are  more 
like  those  subterranean  dormitories  under 
neath  Paris  where  the  dead  were  stored,^or 
though  there  is  swarming,  teeming  life  in  the 
tenements  of  New  York, 'they  are  veritable 
catacombs.  They  are  the  tombs  of  manly 
and  womanly  dignity,  of  thrift,  of  cleanli 
ness,  of  modesty,  and  of  self-respect.  Man's 
first  requirement  is  elbow-room,  and  these 
barracks  deprive  him  of  it.  Where  there  is 
not  elbow-room  ambition  stifles,  energy  tire 
high  resolve  is  still-born./ Childhood  must  be 
kept  as  it  comes — fresh  and  pure,  innocent, 
unsuspecting,  hallowed.  On  this  the  world 
depends.  But  childhood  in  these  barracks  is 
a  hideous  thing.  Instead  of  a  host  of  simple 
joys  that  should  brighten  life's  threshold,  the 


6  PEOPLE    WE   PASS 

little  ones  get  age  in  babyhood,  wisdom  in  for 
bidden  things,  and  ignorance  of  what  is  sweet 
est  and  best. 

Little  Joe  was  at  the  doorway,  and  led  us 
up  and  in.  He  introduced  us  to  his  mother, 
a  jolly  big  German  widow,  who  laughed  in 
cessantly,  and  with  such  changing  tone  and 
fashion  that  in  a  five  -  minute  conversation 
she  did  not  utter  above  half  a  dozen  words, 
yet  took  her  part  satisfactorily  by  laughing. 
Where  almost  any  other  woman  would  have 
said  "Yes,"  and  "You're  very  kind,"  and  "Do 
you  think  so?"  she  smiled,  giggled,  chuckled, 
and  laughed.  As  one  of  us  remarked,  "she 
had  a  mind  that  would  never  ache  from 
straining — a  mind  like  a  sheltered  mill-pond." 
Joe's  sister  was  flitting  in  and  out  in  such  a 
way  as  to  be  partly  in  that  room  and  more 
considerably  in  other  rooms,  whence  issued 
alternate  sounds  of  feminine  merriment  and 
feminine  bickering.  Joe  captured  and  pre 
sented  her.  She  was  an  ideal  daughter  of  the 
tenements — a  stunted,  black-eyed,  well-round 
ed  little  thing,  with  her  coarse  black  hair 
"  banged  "  on  a  line  with  her  eyebrows.  She 


JOE  a  SISTER 


THE    LINE-MAN  S    WEDDING  7 

wore  a  bit  of  lace  at  her  throat,  and  two  large 
red  bands  at  the  lower  ends  of  the  very  tight 
sleeves  of  a  dress  which  tilted  backwards  and 
forwards  and  sideways,  regardless  of  her  move 
ment,  as  if  it  had  a  will  as  well  as  ways  of  its 
own. 

"  This  is  my  sister,"  said  Joe. 

She  bowed  stiffly. 

"  She  ain't  going  to  get  married." 

"  You  jest  shot  up  !"  said  she. 

"  Because  her  feller's  so  google  -  eyed  " 
(here  the  boy's  ears  were  spitefully  boxed) 
"that  if  they  went  to  get  spliced"  (here  his 
face  was  slapped)  "the  minister  would  mar 
ry  him  to  the  wrong  girl,  'less  he  was  blind 
folded." 

"I  don't  care,  now,"  said  the  girl,  very 
much  mortified  and  angry.  "  You're  a  sassy 
thing !  Mother,  can't  he  stop  ?" 

The  old  woman  laughed  immoderately  as 
the  girl  flounced  out  of  the  room,  which  then 
began  to  fill  with  young  people,  mainly  with 
girls,  who  looked  and  dressed  so  like  Joe's  sis 
ter  that  they  might  easily  be  mistaken  for 
members  of  the  same  family.  The  young  men 


8  PEOPLE    WE    PASS 

who  had  been  invited  came  in  a  body.  They 
first  met  together,  as  was  their  nightly  cus 
tom,  in  a  large  room  over  a  corner  groggery, 
where  they  maintained  what  they  called  "The 
Pinochle  Club."  Tens  of  thousands  of  men 
meet  in  the  same  way  in  the  liquor  and  beer 
saloons  of  the  city  every  night  and  every  Sun 
day,  and  whenever  they  are  not  at  work.  If 
the  votes  of  the  members  of  what  we  call  the 
clubs  of  the  town  could  be  contrasted,  in  bulk, 
with  the  votes  of  these  little  social  clubs  and 
corner-saloon  coteries,  the  reader  would  under 
stand  why  Tammany  Hall  respects  the  saloon 
coteries  and  treats  the  great  clubs  of  Fifth 
Avenue  with  contempt.  These  young  men 
who  came  to  the  wedding  were  honest  enough 
young  fellows.  They  were  working-men. 
Some  wore  blue  shirts  under  outer  clothes  of 
locally  fashionable  patterns,  but  one  or  two 
displayed  high  colored  collars  and  cuffs  that 
matched  them.  Each  carried  a  lighted  cigar 
in  his  mouth,  and  each  took  his  turn  in  dart 
ing  across  the  room  with  a  peculiar  slide,  and 
spitting  noisily  more  or  less  in  the  direction 
of  the  stove. 


"THE  YOUNG  MEN  CAME  IN  A  BODY' 


THE    LINE-MAN  S    WEDDING  9 

The  bride,  a  tiny,  pert  little  blond  German, 
with  eyes  that  shone  with  mischievous  expres 
sion,  was  surrounded  by  the  other  girls.  To 
their  surprise  she  would  not  take  off  her  hat 
and  cloak,  she  would  not  sit  down,  she  would 
not  say  why.  She  would  only  laugh  silently 
with  her  tiny  bead  like  eyes.  It  was  evident 
that  between  excitement  and  self -conscious 
ness  she  was  undergoing  an  intense  strain. 
Presently  there  came  a  stalwart  young  fel 
low,  blond  also  and  a  German,  who,  from  a 
physical  standpoint,  was  certainly  handsome. 
And  he  was  more  than  commonly  intelligent- 
looking  as  well.  His  dress,  under  the  cir 
cumstances,  was  very  peculiar.  He  wore  a 
cardigan  jacket,  and  shabby  trousers  tucked  in 
cow-hide  boots,  to  which  were  affixed  the 
heavy  spurred  irons  with  which  telegraph-line 
repairers  climb  the  poles  on  which  the  wires 
are  strung.  In  one  hand  he  swung  a  cap  and 
a  stout  new  hempen  rope.  The  young  men 
gathered  around  him  and  loudly  voiced  their 
astonishment,  for  this,  it  appeared,  was  the 
bridegroom.  They  asked  him  if  he  had  just 
quit  work,  and  how  long  it  would  take  him 


10  PEOPLE    WE    PASS 

to  dress,  and  "  what  it  all  meant,  any 
how/' 

u  Is  the  kag  of  beer  here  ?"  he  asked  the 
jolly  widow,  in  German.  She  replied  with 
an  affirmative  series  of  chuckles  and  indica 
tions  of  pent-up  merriment,  and  a  great  bus 
tle  ensued.  As  a  result  there  was  brought 
into  the  room  a  table  spread  with  cold  meats, 
German  cheeses,  pickles,  strange  cakes  with 
the  fruits  outside,  and  other  cakes  covered 
with  icing  and  rubbed  with  red  sugar.  Then 
followed  the  inevitable  beer — mainstay  and 
chief  delight  of  the  masses — in  a  keg  on  a 
wooden  horse,  and  accompanied  by  more  than 
a  score  of  heavy  beer-saloon  glasses  with  han 
dles.  This  was  the  bridegroom's  answer  to 
the  questions  of  his  friends,  and,  being  practi 
cal  in  its  way,  was  received  with  better  grace 
than  the  girls  had  accorded  to  the  bride's  re 
sponses  in  mysterious  and  mischievous  glances. 

The  next  important  personage  to  arrive  was 
the  clergyman,  a  shrivelled  little  German,  in 
a  battered  beaver  hat  and  suit  of  black,  illu 
mined  by  one  of  those  high  white  collars  that 
show  no  break,  but  seem  to  have  been  made 


THE  LINE-MAN'S  WEDDING  11 

and  laundered  on  the  necks  of  those  who  wear 
them.  He  rubbed  his  hands  before  the  stove, 
and  after  consuming  a  palmful  of  snuff,  put  to 
violent  use  a  handkerchief  of  so  pronounced  a 
red  that  it  made  him  seem  to  suffer  from  an 
extraordinary  hemorrhage  at  the  nose.  When 
he  was,  as  it  seemed  to  the  others,  very  good 
and  ready,  he  took  from  a  tail  pocket  of  his 
coat  something  very  like  a  woman's  striped 
stocking,  and  fitted  its  open  end  over  his  skull. 
Then  the  stocking  took  the  guise  of  a  liberty 
cap.  During  all  this  time  he  spoke  to  no  one, 
but  carried  the  air  of  a  man  of  business  bent 
upon  a  perfunctory  performance,  and  deter 
mined  to  execute  it  properly  and  with  de 
spatch.  His  stocking  adjusted,  he  might  have 
spoken — indeed,  he  did  clear  his  throat  as  if 
to  do  so — but  the  arrival  of  the  tardiest  of  the 
guests  prevented  his  doing  so.  This  new  ar 
rival  was,  next  to  the  bride  and  groom,  the 
person  of  most  distinction  in  the  company, 
Mr.  Barney  Kelly,  the  reporter. 

"  Ah,  there,  Barney !"  all  the  men  called 
out. 

"  Ah,  there !  put  it  there,"  said  the  genial 


12  PEOPLE    WE    PASS 

journalist,  making  a  pantomimic  offer  of  a 
shake  of  his  hand  to  all  at  once. 

In  presenting  him  to  the  reader  there  is  no 
intention  to  have  it  understood  that  he  repre 
sents  more  than  a  very  small  fraction  of  those 
who  follow  the  important  profession  to  which 
he  is  allied.  And  yet  his  kind  exists  and  even 
prospers,  in  isolated  instances,  especially  upon 
such  newspapers  of  the  period  as  pride  them 
selves  upon  a  feverish  degree  of  incessant  orig 
inality  in  the  pursuit  and  treatment  of  exciting 
topics.  In  the  journals  to  which  I  refer  the 
daily  and  numerous  ""sensations"  are  uniform 
ly  spread  out  under  long  and  very  black  head 
lines  upon  sheets  no  edition  of  which  goes  to 
the  public  as  anything  less  extraordinary  than 
an  " Extra"  -that  word  being  invariably 
printed  in  larger  and  blacker  type  than  the 
titles  of  the  newspapers  themselves.  The 
popular  journal  which  employs  Mr.  B.  Kelly 
upon  its  staff  is  the  well-known  Daily  Camera, 
possessor  of  uncountable  circulation,  giver  of 
endless  chromos,  albums,  and  prizes  —  the 
same  which  comes  out  green  as  its  readers  on 
St.  Patrick's  day,  and  red  (as  if  with  the  blush- 


THE  LINE-MAN'S  WEDDING  13 

es  of  journalism)  on  the  Fourth  of  July.  In 
fact,  and  in  short,  the  Camera  is  the  identical 
journal  which  "beat"  all  its  contemporaries  by 
three  minutes  with  the  news  of  one  electrocu 
tion,  and  followed  up  that  triumph  with  an  ac 
count  of  a  subsequent  electrocution  in  no  less 
time  than  half  an  hour  before  the  Governor 
granted  a  reprieve  to  the  condemned  man. 
To  the  office  of  the  Camera  young  Barney 
Kelly  came  as  an  office-boy  from  the  tene 
ments.  Allowed  to  make  extra  money  by 
writing  for  the  sporting  page  (developer  of 
most  of  such  odd  fish  in  the  newspaper  swim), 
he  exhibited  such  talent  as  a  tireless  and  in 
genious  news-getter  that  he  was  soon  installed 
as  a  reporter.  His  lack  of  modesty  did  not 
trouble  him.  The  defects  in  his  education  he 
was  repairing  by  good  use  of  a  shrewd  mind 
and  an  imitative  nature;  and  meantime  the 
office  men  were  "  licking  into  shape  "  or  re 
writing  nil  the  copy  he  turned  in.  We  shall 
see  traces  of  a  queer  lingo  in  Mr.  Kelly's 
speech.  He  knows  better  English  than  he 
speaks,  just  as  many  New  Yorkers  who  hold 
themselves  his  superiors  know  better  than  to 


14  PEOPLE    WE   PASS 

talk  like  affected  Englishmen,  as  they  do.  In 
their  cases,  as  in  Barney's,  these  peculiarities 
of  speech  are  mere  homages  to  fashion  ;  for 
as  the  proper  thing  in  the  middle  of  town  is 
to  talk  broad  English,  so  the  proper  thing 
in  the  tenement  regions  is  to  talk  "  Bow 
ery." 

"Yell,"  said  the  parson,  facing  the  compa 
ny,  "  do  ve  been  all  retty  ?" 

"  Min,"  said  the  bridegroom,  turning  to  the 
bride,  "  have  you  told  any  one  ?" 

"  Well,  I  just  guess  not,"  said  the  bride. 

"Very  well,  then,"  said  the  bridegroom. 
"Gents  and  ladies  all.  The  first  time  I  seen 
Minnie  Bechman  I  was  at  work  on  a  pole  just 
in  front  of  this  window,  where  she  was  sitting, 
once,  on  a  visit  to  these  old  friends  of  hers. 
She  took  to  me,  and  —  you  know  how  it  is 
yourselves  —  I  took  to  her,  and  we  agreed  to 
get  married.  Well,  then,  the  thing  was  how 
we  was  to  get  married  so  as  to  make  a  sensa 
tion  in  the  city.  "Well,  then,  Barney  Kelly 
here,  he  put  the  scheme  into  my  head  that 
we  was  to  get  married  on  a  po— 

"Ilully  gee,  Chris!"  exclaimed  the  great 


THE  LINE-MAN'S  AVEDDING  15 

journalist,  "don't  give  the  snap  away  so 
quick." 

"  Go  on,  Chris !"  "  Go  on,  Dutch !"  cried 
the  others. 

"No;  you  go  'head  and  tell  it,  Barney," 
said  the  bridegroom.  "Tell  it  just  the  way 
you'll  write  it  up." 

"I've  written  it  np  a'ready,"  said  the  jour 
nalist.  "It's  a  corker,  boys — ladies  and  gen 
tlemen  —  a  corker ;  a  hull  collum  in  the 
Camera  /" 

"  Say,  fellers,  that's  great,  hain't  it  ?"  one 
visitor  exclaimed.  "Is  our  names  dere  in  de 
Camera,  Barney?" 

"Every  son  of  a  gun's  name  that  got  in 
vited  is  in  there,  you  kin  bet,"  said  Mr.  Kelly. 
"  Now  I'll  give  you  the  whole  snap.  You  see, 
this  is  the  age  of  sensations,  and  nothing  but 
sensations  goes.  Understand  ?  You  know 
how  it  is  in  the  noozepaper  business  —  you 
can't  git  the  coin  unless  you  git  sensations. 
I  was  a-chasin'  meself  up  an'  down  the  side 
walks  one  day  when  I  run  acrost  Dutch,  our 
friend  here.  You  know  the  first  time  I  seen 
Dutch  was  at  the  Pinochle  Club,  and  I  worked 


16  PEOPLE    WE    PASS 

him  fer  a  sensation  on  the  '  Romance  of  a 
Line-man.'  Him  and  I  faked  a  dandy  story. 
'Twas  about  a  feller  bein'  on  a  pole,  an'  he  got 
to  thinkin'  'bout  his  poor  old  mother  that  was 
a-dyin'  round  the  corner — see  ?  An'  he  took 
off  his  rubber  glove  to  wipe  the  tears  from  his 
eyes,  an'  he  touched  a  live  wire,  an'  he  curled 
up  like  an  autumn  leaf  an'  died  on  the  pole — 
see  ?  An'  Dutch  was  on  the  pole  an'  took  him 
down,  an'  we  faked  up  how,  ever  since  that 
night — see? — he  don't  dream  of  nothing  but 
live  wires.  Everything  that  he  dreams  of 
turns  inter  snakes,  and  the  snakes  turns  out  to 
be  live  wires — see? — and  chases  him  to  the 
roof,  an'  off  inter  the  street,  where  he  wakes 
up  dead  an'  mangled.  Gents,  that's  how  I 
got  acquainted  with  Dutch,  an'  made  him 
famous,  an'  got  eight  dollars  in  hard  stuff  for 
me  trouble. 

"  Well,  now,  we're  gettin'  to  the  marriage. 
I  was  a-chasin'  meself  over  the  sidewalks,  and 
I  met  Dutch,  and  he  told  me  he  was  going  to 
marry  his  girl.  I  seen  the  chance  for  a  sensa 
tion  the  minute  he  told  me.  '  We  can  make 
a  sensation,'  says  I ;  l  one  that  '11  make  the 


THE  LINE-MAN'S  WEDDING  17 

boys  on  tlieJVews  and  Dial  crazy  and  sick' — 
see  ?  People  have  got  married  in  Trinity 
steeple,  in  a  row-boat  on  the  river,  in  a  cab  in 
Central  Park,  in  a  balloon,  on  skates,  by  tel 
ephone  and  telegraph,  and  on  horseback — in 
fact,  more  ways  than  you  can  shake  a  stick  at 
— but  Dutch  an'  me  agreed  we  never  heard 
of  no  one  gittin'  married  on  a  telegraph  pole. 
He's  a  line-man,  an'  climbing  them  sticks  is 
his  business,  ladies ;  so  the  only  thing  was 
whether  Minnie  wouldn't  be  a-scared — see? 
Her  mother  wouldn't  have  it ;  but  there 
wasn't  no  poles  around  her  house,  anyhow ; 
and  besides,  Dutch  wanted  the  pole  where  he 
was  when  he  first  seen  Minnie.  He  told  her 
all  about  it,  an'  she  was  dead  game,  and  she 
says,  '  We  might  as  well  be  romantic  wunst 
in  our  life' — see?" 

"  So,"  said  the  bridegroom,  vastly  impatient 
to  play  his  part,  "we  didn't  tell  Min's  mother 
she  was  a-goin'  to  get  married  at  all ;  and  as 
for  Minnie  being  a-scared,  why,  here  goes  for 
the  first  wadding  alongside  the  wires." 

"  Stop !  Hold  on !"  the  little  clergyman  said, 
imperatively,  arresting  the  bride  and  groom  as 


18  PEOPLE    WE    PASS 

they  were  about  to  leave  the  room.  "Toes 
anypody  here  opject  to  dis  wetting,  or  to  der 
mariner  of  it  ?" 

Anxiety  shone  in  every  young  face,  and 
each  person  looked  at  the  other  to  see  who 
should  raise  a  question  about  the  propriety  of 
what  they  all  regarded  as  novel  and  exciting 
sport. 

"Do  you  think  it  all  right  yourself?"  one 
of  the  young  men  asked  of  the  clergyman. 

"  Oh,  veil,"  he  said,  with  a  laugh  and  a 
shrug  of  the  shoulders  that  seemed  to  indicate 
a  desire  to  shake  off  all  responsibility  and 
gravity,  "I  ton'd  know  apout  dot.  A  man 
gits  porn  in  vunny  blaces,  and  a  man  dies  in 
vunny  blaces.  It  makes  not  much  deeferenz 
if  he  shood  git  marrit  by  such  blaces  vot  he 
likes.  Laties  and  shendlemen,  so  long  vot 
efferypody  peen  bleased,  vy  shood  not  I  git 
bleased  ?  It  is  mit  me  only  choost  a  madder 
of  gitting  my  pay  for  der  chob." 

"  He's  all  right,  lads ;  don't  go  to  guying 
him,"  said  the  journalist.  Then,  in  an  "  aside," 
he  whispered,  "That's  His  Whiskers  that  mar 
ried  the  skeleton  and  the  fat  woman  in  the 


19 

Bowery  museum  last  week,  an'  got  a  collum 
in  every  morning  paper — see  ?" 

"But,  my  vriends,"  the  parson  continued, 
producing  a  tiny  black  book,  and  speaking  in 
a  graver  and  less  business-like  tone  than  be 
fore,  "  in  der  chapel  vare  I  been  aggustomed 
to  do  dese  sort  of  dings  I  alvays  gif  a  vord  of 
adwice.  See  to  it  you  got  a  goot  vooman— 
a  vooman  mitout  bride  and  voolishness.  See 
to  it  you  haf  got  a  goot  man,  von  vich  got 
shteady  vork,  und  vich  dreats  his  farder  und 
mudder  bropper.  See  to  it,  bote  of  you,  vot 
you  got  luf  by  your  hearts.  'Not  vot  I  call 
shicken  luf,  not  vot  I  shall  call  dot  luf  vich 
purns  der  body  vile  der  heart  und  soul  are 
shiffering  mit  cold,  but  dot  kind  of  luf  vich 
is  more  as  twenty-one  years  old,  und  looks 
owd  for  der  future ;  vich  says,  '  I  haf  got  a 
young  vooman  vich  vill  got  blendy  shildren, 
und  vill  pring  'em  up  goot,  und  vill  dake  care 
uf  me  ven  I  got  sick,  und  vill  also  vork  for 
her  liffing,  choost  like  myself;  und,  'I  haf 
got  a  man  sdrong  und  heldty  like  a  lion,  und 
he  has  got  a  goot  trade,  und  if  he  trinks  lager- 
peer  a  leedle  he  vill  not  git  trunk  too  much 


fcO  PEOPLE    WE    PASS 

und  make  a  fool  by  his  family,  und  he  vill 
dreat  me  like  I  ought  to  peen  dreated,  so  nice 
as  I  could  vish.'  Now,  den,  I  am  all  retty." 

The  bridegroom,  a  picture  of  impatience, 
held  out  one  powerful  arm,  crooked  at  the  el 
bow,  and  the  diminutive  bride  leaped  into  it 
and  was  carried  as  lightly  out  of  the  room  as 
if  she  weighed  no  more  than  a  shawl.  All 
the  young  men  and  many  of  the  girls  trooped 
down  stairs  behind  the  happy  man  and  his 
freight,  the  clanking  of  the  irons  on  his  boots 
drowning  the  noises  of  all  their  feet.  The 
clergyman  went  to  one  of  the  front  windows, 
and  throwing  it  open,  leaned  out,  book  in 
hand  ;  all  who  remained  in  the  room  crowded 
behind  him  and  at  the  other  window.  With 
in  a  few  feet — say  twice  an  easy-reaching  dis 
tance — rose  the  great  mastlike  pole,  and  even 
with  the  next  floor  above  were  the  cross-bars 
on  which  the  lowest  wires  were  fastened. 
Five  minutes  before,  not  many  persons  had 
been  seen  on  the  street,  but  now  the  sidewalk 
was  thronged,  and  men,  women,  and  children, 
some  shouting,  some  laughing,  and  some  call 
ing  loudly  to  others  at  a  distance,  were  hurry- 


THE  LINE-MAN'S  WEDDING  21 

ing  to  the  scene.  Perceptible  above  the  other 
sounds  was  the  thud,  thud,  thud  of  the  line 
man's  spikes,  or  "irons,"  as  he  drove  them 
into  the  pole.  He  mounted  steadily  upward, 
circling  the  pole  with  one  arm,  while  his  bride 
rested  partly  on  the  other  and  partly  on  a 
hempen  rope  which  was  arranged  so  as  to 
form  a  loop  under  her  body  and  over  his  far 
ther  shoulder. 

"  Don't  spill  me,  Chris,"  she  said,  in  a  tone 
betraying  at  least  a  little  nervousness. 

"Don't — wiggle — an' — I — won't,"  said  he, 
punctuating  each  word  with  a  thud  and  a  step 
upward. 

At  first  the  villageful  of  people  who  lived 
on  that  one  block  had  been  aroused  by  the  ru 
mor  that  a  girl  was  climbing  a  telegraph  pole, 
but  the  spectacle  of  the  man  and  the  girl 
working  their  way  towards  heights  that  thou 
sands  inhabit,  but  reach  exclusively  by  stairs 
or  elevators,  gave  rise  to  the  report  that  the 
man  was  a  maniac.  The  invention  waxed 
more  ingenious  as  it  flew,  until  it  got  about 
that  the  maniac  was  going  to  hang  himself 
and  the  girl  from  the  cross-bars.  In  a  minute 


22  PEOPLE    WE    PASS 

and  a  half  the  block,  from  stoop-line  to  stoop- 
line,  was  crowded.  If  any  policeman  was  in 
the  neighborhood,  he  did  not  interfere.  The 
Pinochle  Club  was  never  interfered  with. 

"  Ready !  Be  quick  about  it !"  said  the 
bridegroom ;  and  at  the  words  the  little  Ger 
man  parson,  leaning  so  far  out  of  the  window 
that  the  end  of  his  stockinglike  cap  fell  in 
front  of  his  nose,  began  to  read  the  marriage 
service,  in  German,  at  breakneck  speed.  In 
the  wild  flight  of  words  there  were  percepti 
ble  haltings,  marked  with  a  "  Yah  "  by  one  or 
the  other  of  the  couple  on  the  pole.  Before 
it  seemed  possible  the  ceremony  could  have 
reached  its  conclusion,  the  minister  stopped, 
slapped  his  book  shut,  and  said,  in  what  he 
intended  for  the  Queen's  English,  "  I  now 
bronounce  you  man  und  vife.  May  Gott  in 
heffun  pless  you  bote  !" 

A  roar  of  applause  marked  their  successful 
descent  to  the  street,  and  presently  the  bride 
and  groom,  the  former  glowing  from  excite 
ment,  and  the  latter  nursing  his  arm  with 
rude  pantomime,  reappeared  in  the  room,  pre 
ceded  by  some  and  followed  by  the  others  of 


TIIK    PKEACIIKR 


23 

those  who  had  gone  down  to  the  street  with 
them.  Then  there  was  great  excitement.  The 
young  men  seized  the  proud  and  grinning 
bridegroom's  hands  and  jerked  him  violently 
about  the  room  in  the  excess  of  their  admira 
tion.  The  young  women  crowded  the  bride 
into  a  corner  and  intended  to  give  vent  to 
their  surprise  and  delight,  but  their  excite 
ment  greatly  exaggerated  their  natural  lack 
of  conversational  gifts.  When  they  did  re 
cover  their  powers  of  speech  the  results  were 
not  such  as  one  is  accustomed  to  in  feminine 
gatherings  in  the  heart  of  the  town.  But 
these  girls  have  standards  of  their  own,  and 
were  conscious  of  no  defects  in  manners.  Be 
sides,  they  were  excited,  and  had  put  aside  all 
the  affectation  they  display  when  they  call  out 
"  Carsh !  heah,  carsh !"  in  the  great  shopping 
stores  in  which  some  were  employed  ;  and 
they  did  not  mince  their  words,  as  is  their 
fashion  at  the  first  meeting  with  .a  prepos 
sessing  young  man.  Here  are  some  sentences 
of  their  talk : 

"  It  was  great,  Minnie." 

"  It  was  out  of  sight." 


24  PEOPLE    WE    PASS 

"  For  Gord's  sakes !  I  don't  see  how  you 
could  ever  do  it." 

"  I  didn't  care."     This  by  the  bride. 

"  She  hit  me  for  a  silk  dress  for  doing  it, 
just  the  same,"  said  her  husband. 

"  Is  tha-a-t  so,  Minnie  ?  Did  yer  get  a  silk 
dress?" 

"  I  did  so,  Ma-a-a-ggie." 

"My  Gord,  girls!  ain't  Chris  good  to  her?" 

"  Well,"  said  Ma-a-a-ggie  (this  name  is  nev 
er  otherwise  pronounced  six  blocks  from  Fifth 
Avenue  in  our  Celtic  metropolis),  "  I'd  marry 
anny  man  for  a  silk  dress." 

"And  who  wouldn't,  I'd  like  to  know?" 
asked  little  Elsa  Muller,  the  youngest  girl  in 
the  room. 

The  people  of  the  tenements  manage  with 
fewer  words  than  Shakespeare  used.  Their 
frequent  use  of  the  most  sublime  name  should 
not  shock  the  reader.  <No  harm  is  meant  by  it, 
nor  does  its  use  damage  any  character  among 
the  most  of  us.  It  is  but  the  Englishing  of 
an  innocent  exclamation  common  to  all  the 
peoples  of  continental  Europe.  It  is  by  long 
odds  the  commonest  exclamation  of  the  ma- 


25 

jority  of  the  women  on  the  island  we  inhabit. 
My  dear  madam,  your  soft- voiced  maid  says 
it  fifty  times  a  day  to  the  others  in  your  kitch 
en,  and  if  your  modiste  does  not  say  it,  it  is 
because  she  prefers  Mon  Dieu  or  Ach  Gott. 

These  girls  at  the  wedding  ate  and  drank 
and  sang  and  romped  as  merrily  as  so  many 
children.  The  young  men  talked  of  present 
and  absent  friends,  or  teased  the  young  wom 
en  in  ways  good-natured  and  not  meant  to  be 
disrespectful,  though  perhaps  they  were  not 
always  gentle. 

Suddenly,  when  the  fun  was  waxing  lively 
and  general,  about  half  an  hour  after  the  wed 
ding,  an  unexpected  but  characteristic  occur 
rence  took  place.  The  hall  door  flew  open 
and  banged  against  the  wall,  and  in  the  door 
way  was  seen  a  portly  Irish  woman  of  most 
savage  mien.  She  glared  at  the  company,  and 
scanning  each  member  of  it  fiercely,  finally 
fixed  her  angry  frown  upon  one  of  the  young 
girls. 

"  Cordelia  Angelina  Mahoney,"  said  she, 
"  come  right  down  to  your  own  home — d'ye 
hear  me? — and  doan't  be  dishgracing  yerseP 


26  PEOPLE    WE    PASS 

wid  spakin'  to  thim  Dootcli  omadhauns.  It's 
none  o'  my  business,  sure  "  (this  to  the  com 
pany  generally),  "but  if  I  wanted  to  get  mar- 
rit  I'd  be  man-it  loike  a  Christian,  and  not 
loike  a  couple  of  floies  in  the  air." 

Miss  Mahoney  replied  that  she'd  be  "  right 
down,"  and  the  stout  Irish  woman  turned  to 
go  away.  She  wheeled  about  almost  directly, 
however,  and  singled  out  another  of  the  girls. 

"Mary  Maud  Estelle  Gilligan,"  said  she, 
"  what  wud  your  poor  mother,  dead  an'  gone 
— God  bless  her! — think  if  she  cud  see  ye 
skaylarrukin'  wid  a  couple  of  pole -climbing 
monkeys  an'  a  mob  av  sour-crout-atin'  hathen  ? 
Shame  be  to  ye,  Mary  Maud  Estelle !  Yer 
frinds  have  a  roight  to  be  sick  and  sorry  for 
ye." 

I  followed  close  upon  her  heels,  for  I  found 
that  the  merriment  was  to  last  all  night. 


THE   MOTHER  SONG 


THE  MOTHER  SONG 

No  one  in  Forsyth  Street  knew  much  less 
about  the  people  we  pass  than  young  Mrs. 
Ericson.  Though  she  lived  in  the  Big  Bar 
racks  tenement,  she  had  little  in  common  with 
the  others  there  except  poverty.  The  people 
are  not  all  alike  in  the  districts  where  they 
swarm.  Some  are  titled  folk  down  at  the 
heel,  and  some  are  intellectual  and  refined, 
out  of  gear  as  well  as  out  of  pocket.  Young 
Mrs.  Ericson's  father,  Dr.  Whitfield,  inher 
ited  a  fine  medical  practice,  which  he  detest 
ed,  and  scattered  as  a  dos:  shakes  off  water 

'  O 

after  a  bath.  Born  English,  and  eldest  son 
of  a  physician,  he  had  no  more  chance  to 
choose  his  calling  than  his  nationality.  He 
spent  his  adult  years  painting  the  flowers, 
whose  names  and  family  connections  and 
habits  he  knew  in  several  languages.  He 
gladly  prescribed  for  ailing  flowers,  and  prac- 


30  PEOPLE    WE    PASS 

tised  progressive  surgery  upon  pet  dogs  and 
cats  with  loving  skilfulness;  but  the  human 
patients  who  came  he  drove  from  his  door. 
They  spread  it  abroad  that  he  was  a  "  crank." 
To  make  up  for  their  loss  his  wife  had  taken 
boarders  in  a  nice  part  of  town,  until  she  be 
came  convinced  that  this  would  not  make 
both  ends  meet,  when  she  died.  At  last  the 
doctor  rented  one  room  for  an  office  in  a 
brownstone  dwelling,  and  lived  with  his  daugh 
ter  in  the  Big  Barracks.  A  few  old  friends 
invented  illnesses  in  order  to  give  him  the 
money  he  would  not  get  for  himself.  And 
he  painted  flowers  and  filled  his  windows  with 
them,  and  rounded  out  a  Micawberish  exist 
ence.  Now  that  he  is  laid  under  the  roots  of 
his  pets,  the  world  has  discovered  that  few 
men  who  ever  lived  could  paint  flowers  as  he 
did.  To  find  a  man  who  should  have  been  a 
Japanese  artist  forced  to  prescribe  pills  in 
New  York  is  to  discover  one  of  the  proofs 
that  this  stage  of  life  is  experimental,  and 
that  only  in  the  hereafter  will  all  of  us  get 
justice. 

Dr.  Wliitfield  was  a  gentleman  in   every 


"  HE   SPENT    HIS    ADULT    YEARS   PAINTING    FLOWERS " 


THE    MOTHER    SONG  31 

fibre,  and  yet  his  daughter,  Alice  Ericson,  was 
his  superior  at  all  points.  She  had  married 
unhappily,  and  come  back  to  her  father  with 
a  crippled  child,  for  whom  she  slaved.  The 
contrast  between  her  and  the  mass  of  people 
around  her  was  startling  and  cruel.  Splen 
did  in  beauty,  proud  in  bearing,  gentle,  re 
fined,  and  just  a  trifle  stylish  in  her  plain  at 
tire,  she  moved  among  her  neighbors  like  a 
goddess.  Appropriately,  they  worshipped  her ; 
and  not  always  at  a  distance,  for  many  knew 
her  as  a  ministering  angel. 

At  the  door  of  the  Big  Barracks  sat 
"Aunty,"  the  apple-woman,  always  knitting 
gray  stockings.  She  knitted  so  continually 
that  one  would  think  she  supplied  the  army. 
In  reality  she  only  finished  stockings  for  her 
own  needs ;  but  she  wore  two  pair  at  a  time 
six  months  in  each  year.  Besides  a  brim 
ming  store  of  fruit,  her  basket  held  some 
dusty  sticks  of  candy,  and  a  few  "bolivars" 
—  mammoth  ginger-snaps  —  for  which  the 
children  went  freshly  bankrupt  every  day. 
Her  face  was  a  caricature  of  an  orange — 
round,  red,  mottled,  and  bumpy.  She  was 


32  PEOPLE    WE    PASS 

a  power  in  the  neighborhood — a  gossip,  a 
philosopher,  and  reputedly  rich.  She  had 
such  a  royal  brogue  that  if  she  had  boasted 
descent  from  Brian  Born,  no  one  would  have 
doubted  her.  She  loved  to  gossip  admiring 
ly  about  the  "Whitfields ;  but  her  favorite  topic 
was  Eugene  Kelly,  brother  of  Barney  Kelly 
of  the  Daily  Camera.  Eugene  lived  in  the 
neighborhood,  and  often  stopped  to  take  an 
apple,  drop  a  coin,  and  chat  for  a  moment 
with  the  sunny  old  woman — enthroned  like 
an  Irish  Pomona  on  a  stool,  with  the  low  stoop 
of  the  Barracks  for  a  dais.  Kelly  was  a  pros 
perous,  buoyant  youth,  half  scene-painter  and 
half  stage-manager  in  a  Bowery  theatre.  And 
whichever  theatre  it  was,  his  noisy  clothes 
and  his  pert  way  of  carrying  them  were  quite 
as  Bowery  as  it  could  have  been.  He  cut 
short  what  he  was  saying  to  the  old  apple- 
woman  when  others  approached,  and  she  as 
surely  launched  into  praises  of  him  when  he 
had  gone. 

"  Such  a  jintleman,"  she  would  say ;  "  so 
jinerous  wid  his  pennies.  Sure  he  never 
pashed  me  by  av  a  mornin'  or  avenin'  widout 


"SHE    LAUNCHED    INTO  PRAISES  OF  HIM    WHEN    HE    HAD    GONE 


THE    MOTHER    SONG  33 

dhropping  a  pinny  an'  a  koind  wurrud  since 
he  wint  to  work — tin  years  ago  it  is,  come 
New -Year's,  God  be  praised  !  Sure  I  have 
knowed  Mishter  Killy  since  he  was  a  baby — 
an'  a  moighty  foine-lookin'  wan  he  was — th' 
image  av  his  fadther.  'Twas  over  in  the 
Firsht  Ward  I  was  that  toime,  but  God  is 
good  to  me  that  he  came  near  by  here  to  live 
and  found  me  out.  He'll  be  a  foine  man, 
wid  a  power  av  money  ;  mark  that,  mishter. 
'Tis  a  power  av  money  that  Killy  '11  have 
soorn  day,  good -luck  to  all  the  loikes  av 
him  !" 

On  one  evening  Kelly  appeared  to  the 
Whitfield  household  in  an  unconventional 
manner  and  upon  a  queer  errand.  The  doc 
tor  was  in  a  reverie,  and  his  daughter  was 
sewing,  with  her  work  things  on  the  table 
beside  which  both  were  sitting.  There  came 
a  rap  at  the  door.  Mrs.  Ericson  opened  it, 
and  Kelly  walked  in.  He  was  in  his  Sunday 
best  His  lilac-colored  trousers,  his  coat  rolled 
and  pressed  back  half  a  foot  on  either  side 
of  his  low-cut  waistcoat,  and  his  singular  little 
wrinkled  face,  years  and  years  older  than  it 


34  PEOPLE    WE    PASS 

ought  to  have  looked  (as  is  the  way  with  tene 
ment  faces),  would  have  seemed  fantastic  in 
a  comic  paper.  His  manners  matched  his 
looks.  He  was  acquainted  with  the  doctor, 
but  he  ignored  him.  He  did  not  know 
Mrs.  Ericson,  yet  to  her  he  addressed  him 
self. 

What  he  said  was  couched  in  language 
which  is,  in  greater  or  less  degree,  that  of 
nearly  half  the  English-speaking  people  of 
the  American  metropolis.  We  call  it  slang, 
but  they  speak  of  it  as  "  United  States." 
When  one  among  them  expresses  himself  in 
good  English,  particularly  if  it  takes  the  form 
of  uncommon  words,  he  is  rebuked  with  the 
phrase,  "  Oh,  talk  United  States  !"  This  slang 
of  America  is  expressive,  descriptive,  and  in 
variably  springs  from  humorous  conceptions 
and  ideals.  It  is  not  coarse,  like  the  British 
slang,  or  a  mere  juggling  with  funny  sounds, 
like  the  German.  As  we  report  Mr.  Kelly, 
who  endeavored  to  use  less  of  the  freema 
sonry  of  the  streets  than  if  he  had  been  among 
his  fellows,  we  shall  see  that  "  United  States" 
in  nearly  every  case  translates  itself.  His 


THE    MOTHER   SONG  35 

earnestness,  honesty,  and  good-humor  carried 
him  further  than  his  speech. 

"  Miss  Ericson,  I  b'leeve,"  said  he,  with  a 
scrape  and  a  bow. 

"  Yes,  sir  ;  my  father  is  here,  if  you  called 
to  see  him." 

He  did  not  heed  the  suggestion. 

"Miss  Ericson," said  he,  "you  are  a  mother. 
I  know  you  are  a  mother,  because  it's  a  mat 
ter  of  common — what  I  mean  is,  everybody 
knows  it — and  the  baby  is — I  mean  to  say — 
ranks  high  in  the  Barracks  on  account  of  its 
being  sick,  and  you  being  so  anxious — " 

"  Papa,"  said  the  puzzled  young  woman, 
"I  think  this  gentleman  does  wish  to  see 
you." 

The  doctor,  highly  amused,  turned  his  chair 
so  as  to  face  the  visitor,  but  said  not  a  word. 

"  No,  m'rn,"  said  Kelly ;  "  I  can  see  your 
— er — papa  any  time.  It's  you  I'd  like  to 
talk  to.  I've  got  a  chance  to  make  a  big 
boodle,  m'm,  but  in  order  to  do  so  I've  got 
to  get  a  mother ;  what  I  mean  is,  a  real  way- 
up-in-G  one— I  mean  to  say,  a  mother  that's 
out  of  sight,  m'rn.  I  know  a  stack  of  moth- 


36  PEOPLE    WE    PASS 

ers  around,  but  not  the  kind  I'm  a-lookin' 
fer." 

"  Papa,"  the  young  woman  exclaimed,  "  I 
wish  yon  would  see  what  this  gentleman 
wants.  Won't  you  explain  to  my  father, 
sir?  I  do  not  understand  you  at  all." 

"  Sit  down,  Kelly,"  said  the  doctor,  his  eyes 
twinkling  with  amusement.  "Alice,  dear, 
this  is  one  of  our  neighbors — Mr.  Kelly.  Now, 
my  dear  sir,  what  on  earth  do  you  mean  by 
what  you  have  been  saying  to  my  daughter?" 

"  Christmas,  doctor  !  I  hope  I  haven't  made 
no  break,"  said  this  singular  drop  of  the  es 
sence  of  the  Bowery.  "  I  laid  iny  pipe  all 
right,  but  I  missed  a  connection — see?  I  tell 
you  how  I  done.  I  figgered  out  that  you 
would  open  the  door,  an'  I'd  ask  to  be  intro 
duced  to  your  daughter,  an'  then  I'd  kinder 
edge  'round  on  the  weather  an'  tilings — what 
I  mean  is,  s'ciety  talk — an'  then  I'd  plump 
the  hull  business  out  about  what  I  come  for. 
But  then,  you  see,  she  opened  the  door  'stead 
of  you,  an'  that  knocked  the  daylights — sense, 
please — what  I  mean  is,  it  done  me  up — that 
is,  it  upset  you  know,  the  whole  shooting 


THE    MOTHER    SONG  37 

match — see?  That's  how  I  come  to  give  up 
to  her." 

"  Well,  now,  explain  your  errand,  Kelly," 
said  the  doctor ;  "  and  do  so  as  nearly  in  Eng 
lish  as  you  can.  I  confess  I  no  more  under 
stand  you  to-day  than  I  have  on  any  other 
day  that  I  ever  met  you." 

"  That's  all  right,  doctor.  I'll  tell  you  the 
whole  kit  and  boodle  of  it."  Kelly  felt  the 
contest  between  his  awkwardness  and  his  as 
surance,  but  of  sensitiveness,  or  a  true  appre 
ciation  of  the  figure  he  cut,  there  was  no 
more  trace  in  his  manner  than  if  he  had  been 
a  marionette.  "  The  biggest  money  a  feller 
like  me  can  make,"  said  he,  "is  in  writing  a 
ballad.  But  when  you  write  one  it's  got  to 
be  a  daisy,  or  your  name  is  mud.  It's  got  to 
be  a  hummer  from  Humtown,  doctor,  that  '11 
be  sung  and  banged  and  fifed  and  scraped 
and  whistled  by  every  one  from  the  Battery 
to  Westchester." 

"God  save  us!"  the  doctor  exclaimed. 
"Must  you  do  it?" 

"  Well,  that  'sail  right.  If  I  could  get  up 
one  that  you'd  whistle,  Jay  Gould  'd  gimme 

3 


PEOPLE    WE    PASS 


a  railroad  out  of  his  private  colleckshin.  Yon 
see,  I'm  no.  farmer,  trying  to  write  a  song  for 
you.  No ;  but  on  the  level,  doctor,  what  I 
want  's  a  mother,  an'  I've  got  one  to  get.  I 
'ain't  got  no  mother,  an'  'fl  had  she  would 
not  size  up  to  this  racket.  She's  got  to  be  a 
corker,  way  up — what  I  mean  is,  tony,  you 
know — a  fine-as-silk,  gemi-wine,  thoroughbred 
—see  ?" 

"  For  the  sake  of  reason,  man,  what  has 
procuring  a  mother  to  do  with  writing  a  song? 
And  what  will  you  do  with  a  mother,  as  you 
say,  when  you  get  one?" 

"  She'll  understand,  your  daughter  will," 
said  Kelly,  assuming  an  air  of  fatigue  over 
the  doctor's  obtuseness.  "  I've  given  it  to  you 
's  straight  's  I  can.  Now,  if  yoitll  listen  to 
me,  Miss  Ericson,  I'll  be  all  hunk.  You  see, 
a  half  a  dozen  young  fellers  has  made  big 
fortunes  a'ready  with  ballads  an'  ditties,  an' 
they  'ain't  got  any  more  education  than  me. 
Look  at  Peltz,  m'm.  Peltz  used  to  shake  the 
clogs — what  I  mean  is,  he  done  the  clogs  in  a 
song-and-dance  team — an'  before  that  he  was  a 
supe,  an'  he  wrote  '  A  Rose  from  her  dear 


THE    MOTHER    SONG  39 

Grave,'  an'  made  money  enough  to  buy  a. 
whole  block  of  bar-rooms.  An'  there's  Ark- 
wriglit.  We  used  to  call  him  '  Nosey  ' — what 
I  mean  is,  he  didn't  amount  to  as  much  as  a 
policeman  with  the  buttons  cut  off  of  his  coat. 
He  ups  an'  he  writes  i  The  Secret  in  the  Letter 
Molly  mailed  away,'  and,  hully  gee !  (scuse, 
please)  there  ain't  nobody  a-calling him  'Nosey' 
now'days.  He  just  rides  round  all  day  in  cabs. 
He's  got  a  diamond  like  an  incontestant  light, 
an'  you  have  to  shade  your  eyes  when  you 
talk  to  him.  He  snubs  the  theatre  managers 
cold,  an' goes  up  to  Delmonico's  an' finds  fault 
with  the  food.  Well,  there's  my  fortune,  m'm. 
I've  got  the  tune.  I  whistled  it,  an'  our  lead 
er  wrote  it  out,  an'  now  all  I  want  is  a  mother 
• — 'cause  it's  got  to  be  about  a  mother.  Noth 
ing  else  comes  up  to  a  mother,  rn'rn,  for  work 
ing  the  tender  and  soft  snap — what  I  mean  is, 
the  sentimental  racket — see?  Now,  doctor, 
your  daughter's  a  mother — the  on'y  thorough 
bred  in  the  ward.  An'  I  come  as  genteel  as  I 
know  how  (an'  I  know  my  name  would  be 
Dennis  if  I  should  slip  a  cog  in  my  behavior), 
an'  I  ask  if  she'll  give  a  poor  fellow  a  lift.  If 


40  PEOPLE    WE    PASS 

she'd  let  me  come  'round  once  in  a  while  an' 
let  me  see  her  a-rocking  the  kid,  you  know, 
an'  if  she'd  talk  to  me  about  her  cares  an' 
hopes  an'  things — what  I'm  getting  at  is,  if 
she'd  give  up  how  she  feels  deep  down  in  her 
lonesome,  y'understand — why,  then,  hully  gee! 
(sense,  please)  I'd  ask  no  odds  of  nobody  alive. 
I'd  be  able  to  write  a  Ji in-Dandy  song,  an'  I 
could  buy  a  horse-car  every  time  I  wanted  to 
go  'round  town.  An'  say,  doctor,  she  wouldn't 
lose  anything  by  it,  nor  you,  neither  —  an' 
that's  on  the  level." 

"My  dear  fellow,"  said  the  doctor,  "  you 
don't  know  what  nonsense  you  are  ask — " 

"  No,  papa,"  said  Mrs.  Ericson,  extending 
to  Kelly  a  hand  that  was  accompanied  by  a 
kindly  smile.  "  I'll  do  what  Mr.  Kelly  asks, 
so  far  as  I  understand  it,  and  so  far  as  I  can. 
It  won't  be  possible  for  me  to  tell  you  a  moth 
er's  thoughts,  sir,  and  you  will  be  disappointed 
in  me,  I  am  sure ;  but  if  you  care  to  call  now 
and  then  when  my  father  is  here,  I  will  be 
glad  to  do  what  I  can  to  assist  you.  Now  be 
seated,  and  let  me  hear  more  of  your  plan.  I 
must  tell  you  very  frankly  that  you  speak  a 


THE    MOTHER    SONG  41 

language  which  is  almost  foreign  to  me,  but 
I'll  try  to  understand  you.  Have  you  no 
mother,  did  you  say,  Mr.  Kelly  ?" 

"  Well,  I  might  'swell  say  I  never  had  no 
mother,"  said  he.  "  If  I  had  one,  though,  she 
wouldn't  be  up-and-up,  like  you,  you  know." 

After  that  first  interview  Kelly  called  at 
the  doctor's  once  a  fortnight  at  first,  and  then 
once  a  week.  The  simplicity  of  his  nature, 
as  well  as  its  geniality,  smoothed  the  way  for 
him  there  as  elsewhere  in  his  narrow  world. 
The  ballad,  it  was  evident,  was  to  be  a  work  of 
time,  like  the  Cologne  Cathedral  and  many 
another  chef-d'oeuvre.  He  bought  poetical 
works  at  Mrs.  Ericsori's  suggestion,  and,  at 
first,  she  read  to  him  out  of  them.  But  she 
was  obliged  to  acknowledge  that  this  plan  of 
stimulating  his  genius  was  a  failure.  "  That 
stuff,"  said  he,  referring  to  the  works  of  the 
master-poets,  "wouldn't  go  with  the  people 
for  a  cent;  but,  say,  I  like  the  swing  of  it; 
it's  great."  He  did  not  tire  of  his  visits.  To 
talk  with  such  a  woman,  and  to  hear  her  con 
verse,  was  a  constant  delight — a  joy  greater 
than  any  he  had  ever  known. 


42  PEOPLE    WE    PASS 

"  Mothers  are  the  dandiest  things  in  songs," 
he  explained  one  day.  "  You  know  how  fel 
lers  always  sings  about  mothers  when  they're 
with  the  women,  an'  when  they're  in  hard 
luck,  an'  when  they're  half  shot ;  sure,  every 
time." 

"  Half  shot,  Mr.  Kelly  ?"  Mrs.  Ericson  in 
quired. 

"  I  mean  when  they  are  a  little  slewed. 
You  take  any  lot  of  men,  and  let  them  get 
their  skates  on,  an'  they'll  start  in  on  a  moth 
er  song  every  time  ;  if  they  don't,  I'm  a  lamp 
post." 

"But  why  when  they  are  skating,  in  par 
ticular  ?" 

"  Sense,  please,"  said  Kelly,  stifling  a  smile. 
"I'm  a  sure  loser  every  time  I  try  to  give  up 
to  a  lady  like  you.  I  get  'way  off  my  base. 
I'm  a  farmer  at  anything  'cept  plain  U.  S. 
What  I  mean  by  men  getting  on  their  skates 
is — I  mean  to  say  when  they're — not  tight — 
see  ? — but  just  happy." 

"Now,"  he  continued,  "it's  just  the  same 
in  a  thenyter.  Nothing's  in  it  with  mother 
songs.  If  the  crowd  knows  that  a  performer 


THE    MOTHEK   SONG  43 

can  sing  mother  songs,  nothing  else  goes. 
They'll  win  in  a  romp  every  time,  when  your 
love  songs  and  your  flower  songs  and  your 
comics  won't  get  a  hand — what  I  mean  by  a 
hand  is  an  ongcore — see?  Peltz  and  them 
other  fellers  that's  made  fortunes  out  of  moth 
er  songs  has  all  had  homes,  you  know,  m'm. 
They've  had  mothers,  and  been  brought  up 
dead-to-rights.  There's  where  they  call  the 
turn  on  me." 

Below-stairs  one  kindly  heart  rejoiced  at 
Kelly's  acquaintanceship  with  the  Whitfields. 

"  '  Tis  his  name  that  '11  carry  him  into  anny 
society,"  said  the  old  apple- woman.  "  Doan't 
you  think  Yoojane  is  a  jintale  name  ?  And 
Killy,  too — praise  be  to  God,  'tis  the  same 
name  as  the  boss  himself — the  boss  of  Tam 
many  Hall.  But  if  he  had  a  name  like  Gilli- 
gan — Gilligan  is  the  name  I  got  meself  from 
me  fadther  and  mudther — God  kape  the  both 
av  'em  ! — av  he  had  a  name  like  that  'twould 
be  anodther  matther.  Wid  Pat  Gilligan  for 
a  name,  he'd  be  working  wid  a  broom  along 
wid  the  Dagos  claning  the  streets.  Sorra  bit 
betther  cud  ye  expect  av  a  man  wid  the  name 


44  PEOPLE    WE    PASS 

av  Gilligan.  But  ye  cudn't  make  a  mishtake 
av  a  man  bein'  a  foine  man  an'  his  name  was 
Yoojane  Killj — end  ye,  now?  God  knows 
you  cudn't,  darlint." 

On  one  afternoon  Kelly  rushed  up  the  Bar 
racks  stairs  to  the  doctor's  flat.  He  almost 
flew,  so  great  was  his  haste.  In  an  excess  of 
impatience  he  banged  at  the  door.  Luckily 
(for  the  door,  at  any  rate)  lie  was  instantly 
admitted.  He  did  not  notice  the  doctor. 
He  shouted  to  Mrs.  Ericson  to  open  the  win 
dow. 

"  Quick,  please,"  he  called.  "  There  !  Do 
you  hear  that — the  tune  that  lad  in  the  street 
is  whistling?  It's  my  song,  i Maggie  Croly.' 
Sure,  sure  !  I  wrote  it,  an'  it's  goin'  to  go. 
Do  you  hear  it  now?  Tiddy-tum,  tiddy-tum- 
te-tmn.  Do  you  hear  it  ?" 

Amid  the  uproar  of  cart  wheels  and  horses' 
hoofs  and  venders'  cries  the  boy's  whistling 
sounded  very  faint  and  indistinct. 

"I  just  did  it  for  a  flyer,"  said  Kelly. 
"  Foley  and  Fogarty,  the  double  clogs,  have 
been  singing  it  up  to  Tony's  for  a  week,  and 
already  the  kids  are  on  to  it.  I'm  as  proud  as 


THE    MOTHER    SONG  45 

old  Vanderbilt,  I  am.    Here's  how  the  chorus 
goes : 

"  '  Tw.is  the  swing  of  her  dress 
That  made  rne  bless 

The  day  I  met  Maggie  Croly. 
To  and  fro,  like  music's  flow, 
Light  as  a  fairy's  wiug  'twould  go  ; 
Nobody  else  can  do  it  so, 

Like  sweet  little  Maggie  Croly.'" 

He  sang  not  unmusically,  accompanying 
the  performance  with  some  of  the  stereotyped 
mannerisms  of  a  concert -hall  singer.  He 
spread  his  hands,  palms  down,  and  swayed  to 
and  fro  in  time  with  the  simple  air.  His  lit 
tle  audience  caught  his  enthusiasm,  and  bade 
him  sing  a  verse  and  then  the  chorus  again. 
Carried  away  by  excitement,  he  roared  his 
song  as  if  he  were  on  a  theatrical  stage  en 
deavoring  to  interest  the  gallery. 

"  It  ain't  great,"  said  he,  "  but  it's  got  the 
ginger  in  it ;  and  it  shows  I'm  on  to  the 
curves.  Wait  till  I  write  the  mother  song. 
That'll  be  out  of  sight — thanks  to  you  friends 
for  the  loan  of  a  mother." 

As  he  spoke  an  uproar  rose  from  the  street 


46  PEOPLE    WE    PASS 

below.  There  were  quick,  short  cries,  fol 
lowed  by  the  frantic  clatter  of  the  hoofs  of  a 
horse  upon  the  sidewalk,  a  crash,  and  then  a 
piercing,  interrupted  scream,  as  of  a  woman 
alarmed  and  instantly  silenced.  Dr.  Whit- 
field  was  the  first  to  reach  the  window.  He 
leaned  out.  Twice  he  drew  back  to  announce 
what  he  saw,  returning  each  time  to  the  outer 
view. 

"  A  runaway,"  he  said.  Looking  again,  he 
added,  "  The  old  apple-woman  at  the  door — " 

"My  God!  What  about  her?"  Kelly 
shouted,  dashing  at  the  other  window. 

"  Trampled  down — badly  hurt,  apparently," 
said  the  doctor. 

"  Then  don't  stand  there — looking  at  her," 
Kelly  screamed.  "  Come  with  me.  She's  my 
mother." 

He  darted  out  of  the  room  with  the  doctor 
close  behind  him.  A  crowd  had  formed  a 
circle  around  the  prostrate  body  of  the  old 
woman,  face  down  upon  the  broad  stoop,  with 
her  fruit  scattered  all  about,  and  trampled,  as 
she  had  been.  She  was  not  dead,  the  doctor 
said,  while  the  crowd  watched  and  listened 


DH.  WIUTKIKLI)   WAS    THE    FIRST    TO    REACH    THE    WINDOW  " 


THE    MOTHER    SONG  47 

hungrily ;  but  she  was  stunned.  Whether 
any  bones  were  broken,  or  her  skull  was  frac 
tured,  he  needed  time  to  find  out.  Would 
some  of  the  men  pick  her  up  and  carry  her  to 
his  flat  ?  Two  truckmen  in  hickory  shirts 
lifted  the  body  lightly,  and  it  was  quickly 
stretched  upon  the  sofa  in  the  doctor's  front 
room.  While  the  doctor  passed  his  sensitive 
fingers  all  over  the  woman's  skull,  Kelly,  who 
had  flung  himself  beside  the  sofa,  seized  one 
of  the  limp  hands  and  kissed  it  between  spo 
ken  sentences  that  voiced  his  alarm. 

"Oh,  doctor,  don't  let  her  die!  Can't  you 
save  her?  She  has  money  ;  you  shall  be  well 
paid.  She's  my  mother,  I  tell  you — my  poor 
old  mother !" 

The  doctor  pushed  him  aside  as  he  would 
have  shoved  a  chair  that  stood  in  his  way. 
Mrs.  Ericson  took  the  young  man's  hand  and 
led  him  to  the  farther  side  of  the  room. 

"  She  won't  have  it  that  she's  my  mother, 
if  she  ever  comes  back  to  me,"  said  Kelly. 
"  She  thought  'twould  queer  me  if  any  one 
knew  I  was  her  son.  It  wasn't  my  doing.  I 
ain't  built  that  way ;  as  God  is  my  judge  I 


48  PEOPLE    WE    PASS 

ain't.  I  'ain't  never  been  ashamed  of  her,  no 
more  than  now ;  but  she  was  dead  gone  on 
having  me  be  a  gentleman.  When  I  got  rich 
or  famous,  she  would  say,  was  time  enough — " 

The  doctor  had  loosened  the  old  woman's 
clothing  at  the  neck  and  waist,  and  had  put  a 
damp  cloth  on  her  forehead.  Kelly  again  flung 
himself  beside  the  sofa. 

"  She's  breathing,  doctor,"  said  he;  "I  take 
my  oath  she  is.  I  see  her  breathe.  Her  pulse  ! 
I  feel  her  pulse.  She  ain't  a-goin'  to  die,  doc, 
is  she  ?  Oh,  Miss  Ericson,  if  you  on'y  knew 
—if  you  on'y  knew.  Every  day  or  two,  on 
the  dead  quiet,  when  no  one  was  on  to  us,  up 
in  her  room,  is  where  she'd  sit  an'  listen  to 
me  an'  kiss  me,  an'  give  me  as  straight  talk  as 
any  feller's  old  woman  ever  gave  up  in  the 
world.  It  was  the  Long  Branch  boats  that 
give  her  a  twist  in  the  head,  m'm.  She  used 
to  sell  fruit  on  the  Plymouth  Rock  and  the 
Jesse  Iloyt  to  them  dude  folks  like  General 
Grant  an'  Jim  Fisk,  that  rode  on  them  boats. 
Some  of  the  richest  of  'em  told  her  they 
started  in  life  with  nothing  to  spare  but  their 
hair  and  finger-nails.  They  jollied  her  up 


THE    MOTHER    SONG  49 

with  the  notion  that  her  boys  could  be  as  rich 
as  themselves.  Then  she  begun  to  think  she 
wasn't  good  enough  —  and  even  her  name 
wouldn't  do — for  me  an'  Barney.  Her  name's 
Gillisran,  and  she  thinks  it's  a  hoodoo.  So 

O          ' 

she  boarded  us  'round  the  ward  under  the 
name  of  Kelly.  She  wouldn't  even  live  with 
us,  but  she'd  see  us  every  day,  and  tell  us  to 
be  up.-and-up —  I  mean  dead  honest  —  see? 
She'd  save  and  save — all  for  me  and  Barney 
— and  she's  got  thousands  laid  by.  She  didn't 
think  the  earth  with  a  silver  rim  around  it 
was  good  enough  for  me  an'  Barney  ;  an'  now 
she's  laying  there — 

"Only  stunned,"  said  the  doctor,  his  exam 
ination  ended.  "Not  a  bone  broken.  Ah,  I 
thought  so;  she  is  coming  around  nicely." 

Kelly  put  an  arm  tenderly  about  the  old 
woman's  waist,  and  kissed  her  and  fondled 
her  hair.  She  opened  her  eyes  slowly,  by 
many  efforts. 

"Oh,  mother!  mother!"  Kelly  cried.;  "are 
you  coming  back  to  me,  mother?  It's  Geney, 
your  boy.  Mother,  do  you  hear  me  ?" 

The  old  woman  looked  all  about  her  and 


50  PEOPLE    WE    PASS 

took  in    her   surround  ings   fully   before   she 
spoke.     Then  she  gripped  her  son's  arm. 

"  Whist,  there ;  whist,"  said  she,  huskily. 
"  They'll  hear  ye,  Jane}7.  Not  another  sound 
of  'mothering' — d'ye  hear?  D'ye  want  to 
dishgrace  yerself.  Whist,  boy ;  have  your 
sinses  lift  ye  that  ye'd  shpoil  everything? 
Now,  spake  loud,  like  me.  Oh,  is  that  you, 
Mishter  Killy  ?  'Tis  alive  I  am,  an'  not  kilt 
at  all,  at  all.  'Tvvas  good  of  all  of  you  frinds 
to  look  af ther  an  ould  hurted  woman.  God's 
praise  be  to  ye,  doctor  darlint — and  Mishter 
Killy." 


LOVE   IN   THE    BIG   BARRACKS 


LOVE  IN  THE  BIG  BARRACKS 

THE  scene  and  time  of  tins  sketch  are  New 
York  city  to-day,  and  though  the  side  lights 
that  fall  upon  it  may  seem  to  pertain  to  the 
Middle  Ages,  they  are  modern  to  our  tene 
ment  population — or  at  least  are  survivals,  like 
love  itself.  Little  Elsa  Muller  was  just  such 
a  girl  as  brings  my  lady  her  new  gown,  in  a 
box  nearly  as  big  as  herself,  from  Mantilini's. 
Did  it  ever  occur  to  my  lady  that  this  little 
burden-bearer  was  a  being  with  a  heart,  a  ca 
pacity  for  loving,  a  head  full  of  romantic  no 
tions — hints  of  all  that  was  in  my  lady's  head/ 
and  heart  once  upon  a  time  ?  Yank  Hurst, 
whom  Elsa  loved  with  the  blind  idolatry  of  a 
heart  surrendered,  was  a  stereotyper  in  a  news 
paper  office — a  mechanic  of  the  swaggering, 
impudent  type  that  my  lady  sees  sometimes 
when  something  about  her  house  is  out  of 
repair.  For  him  madame  tosses  a  glance  at 


54  PEOPLE    WE    PASS 

her  hair  in  the  glass  and  smooths  out  her  dress 
before  she  goes  down  to  see  him.  This  she 
does  for  every  man  who  comes,  to  be  sure, 
but  that  suggests  the  point  that  all  men  are 
human,  and  that  love  and  sentiment  and  ro 
mance  are  as  much  at  home  in  Forsyth  Street 
as  on  Fifth  Avenue.  Jake,  who  loved  little 
Elsa  more  than  he  had  words  to  tell,  is  precisely 
the  man  my  lady  sees  out  of  the  tail  of  her 
eye  through  the  dining-room  windows  when 
he  brings  the  morning's  ice. 

Elsa,(a  dressy,  black-haired  midget  of  about 
seventeen,*  lived  at  home,  with  eight  others,  in 
a  four-roomed  back  flat  in  the  Big  Barracks 
tenement.  The  first  room,  looking  out  through 
the  lire-escape  into  the  court,  was  the  sitting- 
room.  It  had  a  carpet,  which  was  a  rarity, 
and  a  folding-bed,  which  was  a  startling  inno 
vation.  Then  there  were  two  dark  rooms,  one 
with  two  beds  and  room  to  squeeze  between 
them,  and  the  other  with  one  bed — for  Jake, 
the  boarder.  Last  of  all  came  the  kitchen,  con 
taining  a  stove,  a  pine  table,  chairs,  and  the 
water-pail,  to  be  filled  at  the  faucet  for  four 
families,  in  the  hall.  A  email  window  opened 


JAKE,    THE    ICK-MAN 


LOVE    IN   THE    BIG   BARRACKS  55 

into  a  shaft  designed  to  furnish  air  and  light, 
but  also  serving  to  convey  profanity,  obscenity, 
and  gossip  from  window  to  window  for  ten 
families./  In  the  sitting-room  bed  slept  Elsa's 
father  and  mother  and  their  youngest  baby. 
In  the  double-bedded  room  slept  Elsa  and  four 
younger  children.  Only  one  room  was  car 
peted,  but  in  appointments  and  in  liberality  of 
elbow-room  that  was  an  exceptionally  comfort 
able  flat. 

Jake,  the  ice-man,  was  an  orphan,  who  had 
boarded  with  the  Mullers  ever  since  his  father 
paid  his  way  when,  with  Elsa,  he  skipped  "slow- 
poker,"  "  pepper-salt,"  and  "  double  Dutch  "  in 
Thompkins  Square  on  Saturdays.  That  shows 
what  a  gentle  soul  was  Jake's,  for  most  tene 
ment  boys  herd  by  themselves,  and  don't  play 
with  the  girls  after  they  can  walk.  They  have 
a  boy-and-man  language  of  their  own — "de 
chin  dat  shows  dey're  tough" — a  lingo  all 
made  up  of  slang  and  profanity.  This  the  girls 
avoid.  Some  that  are  called  "tough  girls" 
talk  like  the  boys,  but  they  are  all  so  disreput 
able  that  their  fashion  has  not  only  frightened 
all  the  other  girls  into  proper  speech,  but  it  is 


56  PEOPLE    WE    PASS 

reacting  on  the  tough  girls  and  exterminating 
their  kind.  They  are  as  marked  as  if  they 
had  been  branded.  So  the  shop-girls  became, 
and  remain,  the  exemplars  of  a  nice  fashion  in 
girls'  speech.  They  study  the  fine  ladies  whom 
they  wait  upon.  They  cultivate  soft  low  tones 
and  gentle  exclamations  and  good  grammar, 
as  far  as  that  can  be  picked  up  in  disconnected 
fragments,  for  their  ears  are  quick  and  sensi 
tive.  In  the  shops  they  even  cry  "  Carsh ; 
heah,  carsh,"  to  summon  the  cash -girls,  and 
they  use  the  broad  a  at  other  times.  But  only 
those  carry  it  out  of  doors  who  are  "  heads  of 
departments,"  buyers,  fitters,  and  cloak-models 
— ambitious  country -bred  girls  who  live  in 
boarding-houses.  The  tenement  girls  would 
be  guyed  beyond  endurance  if  they  put  on 
such  airs.  Many  married  tenement  women 
use  what  language  comes  to  their  tongues 
when  excited,  so  that  from  men,  boys,  and 
women  the  sensitive  ears  of  the  tenement  girls 
continually  hear  far  different  speech  from  that 
which  they  use. 

Jake  and  Elsa's  father  were  bound  by  a  tie 
common  to  thousands  in  our  foreign  quarters. 


LOVE    IN    THE    BIG    BARRACKS  57 

They  came  from  the  Rhenish  Palatinate,  and 
belonged  to  the  Pfaelzer  Verein,  which  met 
in  a  Forsyth  Street  beer -hall,  and  had  lots 
of  fnn  and  beer  once  a  month,  a  ball  every 
winter,  and  a  target-shoot  in  the  spring.  At 
the  monthly  meetings  there  were  fines  for 
talking  politics,  for  having  boy  babies,  and 
(very  heavy  ones)  for  girl  babies.  The  ball 
reflected  true  democracy,  because  the  Pfaelzer 
folk  were  of  all  fortunes ;  and  the  rich  chem 
ist's  wife  and  the  big  jeweller's  family,  a  police 
captain's  kith  and  kin  and  a  brewer's  folks,  all 
met  and  danced  with  the  poorer  folk  like 
members  of  one  family.  At  the  spring  target- 
shoot,  marking  the  coming  of  the  new  wine 
and  first  sausages  in  the  fatherland,  the  best 
marksman  was  crowned  King  and  the  first 
marks  woman  became  Queen.  But  always  the 
great  joy  was  in  the  gossip  about  boyhood 
days  in  the  Rhenish  villages  and  vineyards — 
days  and  places  grown  poetic  through  dis 
tance. 

On  six  mornings  in  the  week  Jake  and  Elsa 
rose  early,  Jake  to  go  to  the  stable  for  his 
team,  and  Elsa  to  go  to  the  dress-maker's  to 


58  PEOPLE    WE    PASS 

baste  and  put  in  pockets  and  run  errands. 
They  met  in  the  kitchen.  Elsa  brewed  tea 
for  both,  and  each  went  to  the  cupboard 
and  sliced  off  bread  and  buttered  it  with  the 
same  knife.  They  ate  on  their  feet,  as  tene 
ment  folk  take  most  meals ;  for  though  a  hus 
band  and  wife  may  sit  down  in  shirt  sleeves 
and  apron,  separately  or  together,  as  may 
happen,  most  tenement  folk  know  but  one 
formal  meal — that  is  Sunday's  dinner.  And 
even  on  that  occasion  some  boys  will  eat  and 
retire  before  the  others  have  finished,  and 
some  of  the  girls  will  lounge  in  the  street 
doorway  till  hunger  sends  them  np  to  help 
themselves  from  the  closet  or  table  without 
sitting  down. 

Jake  loved  Elsa  with  a  dull,  patient  yearn 
ing,  but  she  regarded  him  as  the  same  brother- 
like  appendage  he  had  always  seemed.  It  was 
Yank  Hurst  that  she  loved  with  her  whole 
soul,  tenderly,  deeply,  ardently.  Yank  had 
come  to  live  in  the  Big  Barracks  a  year  be 
fore,  and  Elsa  was  the  first  girl  he  knew 
there.  He  joined  the  Pinochle  Club  at  Rag 
Murphy's,  on  the  corner  below,  and  when  the 


LOVE    IN    THE    BIG    BARRACKS  59 

club  gave  its  picnic  at  Wendel's  Park  he  in 
vited  her  to  go  with  him.  He  must  have 
been  a  good  workman,  for  he  was  prosperous 
and  outdressed  his  companions ;  but  he  was 
not  a  good  man.  He  was  empty-headed  and 
loud-mouthed — the  kind  of  a  fellow  who  is  a 
bully  until  some  one  kicks  him,  and  who 
knows  everything  until  he  meets  a  man  who 
knows  one  thing.  But  Elsa  saw  in  him  the 
first  handsome  fellow  who  had  singled  her  out 
to  pay  her  court. 

They  went  to  what  they  called  "  the  picker- 
nick,"  and  danced,  and  swung  in  the  scups,  and 
bowled,  and  had  ice-cream  and  Frankfurters. 
Towards  dusk  Mose  Eisenstone,  the  Senator 
from  the  most  thickly  populated  district  in 
America,  in  which  the  Big  Barracks  stands, 
came  to  the  park,  and  spent  twenty-five  dollars 
setting  up  several  kegs  of  beer  and  u  cigars  all 
'round."  Yank  Hurst  drank  too  much  free 
beer,  and  began  to  show  the  effects  of  it.  Elsa 
was  obliged  to  fight  him  until  they  went  home, 
as  so  many  tenement  girls  have  to  do  to  pro 
tect  themselves.  A  few  lose  both  innocence 
and  virtue  before  they  know  they  have  them ; 


60  PEOPLE    WE    PASS 

but  the  great  majority  become  wise  as  ser 
pents,  and  quite  as  savage  when  they  are  as 
sailed. 

"  Shall  I  kiss  you,  Elsa  ?"  That  was  how 
Yank  began  his  nonsense,  before  twenty  of 
the  Pinochle  Club  men. 

"  Don't  bother  to  try  it,"  she  replied  ;  "  I've 
got  trouble  enough." 

After  a  time  they  found  themselves  away 
from  the  lights,  among  the  trees,  and  they 
kissed  a  great  deal.  In  private  that  was  ro 
mantic,  and  there  was  no  harm  in  it,  Elsa 
thought ;  but  presently  she  found  her  limit  of 
amiability  passed,  and  she  fought  till  her  beau 
came  back  to  his  senses.  This  happened  sev 
eral  times  that  night,  but  Elsa  was  too  young 
to  judge  the  case  shrewdly,  and  too  proud  of 
being  with  her  first  adult  beau.  Besides,  only 
death  itself  could  make  her  other  than  a  girl 
of  strong  character  and  upright  life.  She  had 
not  expected  to  fight  so  often  and  so  savagely, 
but  the  entire  situation  was  just  as  novel. 
Once  she  screamed — because  of  her  sex  rather 
than  her  danger — and  she  was  chagrined  and 
vexed  to  see  Jake  run  up  and  hurl  Yank 


- 


SHALL    I    KISS    YOU,  KLSA  ?' 


LOVE    IN   THE    BIG    BAKKACKS  61 

twenty  feet  with  a  mere  jerk  of  his  elbow. 
Hurst  slunk  back,  and  whined  that  he  "  wasn't 
doin'  nartin'  ";  but  Elsa  told  her  champion  she 
"  wisht  he'd  leave  her  be ;  he  was  always  mind 
ing  her  business." 

"Scream  again,"  said  Jake,  "and  I'll  sew  a 
button  on  dat  feller's  face." 

Many  a  happy  summer  evening  Elsa  spent 
with  Yank.  The  places  where  they  walked 
and  chattered  are  the  lovers'  haunts  of  the 
downtown  tenement  folk,  such  as  it  is  too  bad 
to  dismiss  with  mere  enumeration — the  flirta 
tion  end  of  Second  Avenue,  with  its  swarm  of 
happy  prornenaders  ;  the  bottom  of  Broad 
way,  down  to  Battery  Park  to  hear  the  music 
on  Friday  nights  ;  and  the  breezy  East  River 
wharves,  where  the  abundant  lovers  dance  and 
sing  to  the  music  of  a  mouth-organ  in  the 
hands  of  some  boy  genius  who  knows  the 
dance  tunes  of  last  season  and  the  street  son^s 

c> 

of  the  moment — these  were  some  of  their 
haunts.  But  the  Big  Barracks  roof  was  in 
high  favor.  There  the  Barracks  girls  flaunt 
ed  their  sweethearts  in  each  other's  faces  ;  and 
Elsa  thought  she  had  the  best  of  the  competition. 


62  PEOPLE    WE    PASS 

Elsa  fell  more  and  more  in  love,  and  Yank 
less  and  less.  She  had  a  way  of  saying,  "  Cer 
tainly,  when  we're  married,"  a  dozen  times  of 
an  evening.  Her  words  seemed  to  suggest 
that  she  was  trying  to  trap  him  into  a  seri 
ous  relationship — he  who  never  was  serious 
except  in  his  vices.  So  he  drifted  from  her, 
and  nights  came  when  she  stood  at  the  Ear- 
racks  doorway  and  he  was  on  the  roof  with 
Cordelia  Angeline  Mahoney,  of  the  floor  above 
the  Mullers'.  Some  girl  was  sure  to  drop 
down  to  the  door  and  chat  long  enough  to  tell 
Elsa  who  was  on  the  roof,  when  Elsa  went  to 
her  bedroom  and  cried,  oh !  so  convulsively. 
Very  soon  Yank  Hurst  and  Cordelia  Ange 
line  were  acknowledged  to  be  one  another's 
"  best  feller"  and  best  girl,  and  Elsa  was  con- 
sumedly  miserable.  She  was  so  visibly  wretch 
ed  that  her  jilting  became  the  talk  of  the  tene 
ment  and  Mantilini's  shop,  and  her  chum, 
Rosie  Mulvey,  chided  her  for  "  making  a  holy 
show  of  herself."  In  the  kindest  ways  Jake 
tried  to  cheer  and  amuse  her;  but  him  she 
treated  as  if  no  degree  of  insensibility  and 
unkindness  expressed  her  dislike  for  him.  He 


LOVE    IN   THE    BIG    BAKRACKS  C3 

endeavored  to  distract  her  mind,  instead  of 
divining  that  to  brood  over  her  misery  was 
her  only  joy.  From  being  a  cheerful,  normal 
girl,  she  became  a  prey  to  morbid  thoughts, 
and  even  ungentle  schemes.  She  knew  Cor 
delia  Angeline  Mahoney  very  well.  Like 
most  tenement  girls,  Cordelia  had  a  little 
store  of  pictures  of  elegant  women  stylishly 
dressed,  among  them  being  several  of  actresses 
in  scant  dresses  and  no  dresses  at  all — the  cos 
tumes  of  pages.  But,  unlike  most  girls,  Cor 
delia  Angeline  had  attempted  to  vie  with  such 
women — about  whose  clothes  and  beauty  most 
good  girls  only  dream — and  had  paid  an  extra 
dollar  to  a  Grand  Street  photographer  to  be 
photographed  in  the  tights  and  trunks  with 
which  more  than  one  east-side  photographer 
ministers  to  the  weakness  of  the  vainest  cus 
tomers  who  come.  Cordelia  Angeline  had 
given  one  of  these  pictures  to  Elsa,  who  took 
it  reluctantly,  and  then  hid  it — as  young  girls 
do  with  a  possession  that  brings  a  guilty  feeling 
— in  the  one  place  that  was  hers  alone,  a  little 
locked  box  containing  Napoleorfs  Oracle  and 
Dream  Book,  two  or  three  gushing  love-poems 


G4  PEOPLE    WE    PASS 

cut  from  newspapers,  a  valentine,  a  lock  of 
Rosie  Mulvey's  hair,  the  white-bead  necklace 
she  wore  at  confirmation,  and  the  wreckage  of 
several  rings  and  pins  broken  or  worn  out. 

After  a  deep  reflection — mainly  upon  how 
she  should  get  the  picture  to  Yank  Hurst — 
she  took  the  guilty  portrait  out  of  her  box. 
She  determined  to  write  upon  it  a  sentence 
that  should  guide  his  mind  to  a  proper  view 
of  a  girl  who  would  have  such  a  picture  taken 
— her  view,  of  course.  First  she  wrote  under 
the  picture  "A  Bowery  Actress"  but  she  drew 
a  line  through  the  words,  leaving  them  just  as 
legible  as  at  first.  She  turned  the  photo 
graph  over  and  wrote  on  the  back,  "No  Good 
girl  Would — "  She  stopped,  then  drew  a 
very  thin  line  through  those  words.  At  last 
triumphantly  she  wrote  :  "  C.  A.  M.  Stuck 
on  her  Shape  /"  When  Jake  came  in  she 
smiled  so  sweetly,  and  took  such  affectionate 
pains  to  make  up  a  good  supper  for  him,  that 
the  silly  fellow  fancied  the  reward  for  all  his 
love  and  patience  had  come.  But  Elsa  was 
disingenuous.  She  was  working  up  to  the 
point  of  getting  Jake  to  bribe  Yank's  little 


LOVE    IN   THE    BIG   BARRACKS  65 

brother  to  put  the  photograph  on  Yank's  bed, 
and  never  tell  how  it  came  there  ;  useless 
trouble  of  Elsa's,  because  Jake  would  have 
done  anything  she  asked,  and  because  when 
Yank  opened  the  paper  and  saw  the  photo 
graph  he  simply  grinned  with  the  mischievous 
light  of  a  satyr's  eyes  in  his  beadlike  optics. 
After  that  Yank  Hurst  was  more  attentive  to 
Cordelia  Angel ine,  and  little  Elsa  was  more 
wretched,  and  Jake  was  more  puzzled  and 
anxious  to  please  her. 

Elsa  lived  neck -deep  in  superstition,  and 
when  she  agitated  the  general  pool  its  waves 
submerged  her.  Everybody  she  knew  was 
superstitious  —  the  Irish,  the  Germans,  the 
Jews,  the  Slavs — just  as  much  so  as  Chop 
Suey,  the  neighboring  laundryman,  who 
burned  perfumed  punk  at  night  to  keep  evil 
spirits  away.  The  weather,  the  days  of  the 
week,  the  dropping  of  scissors,  the  leaves  in 
the  teacups,  the  pins  on  the  floor,  the  antics 
of  cats  and  dogs,  everything  was  more  or  less 
cabalistic  in  the  minds  of  the  women  who 
dropped  in  to  drink  beer  or  tea  with  Elsa's 
mother.  So  it  was  with  her  girl  friends  and 


66  PEOPLE    WE    PASS 

the  women  at  Mantilini's.  In  her  heart-sick 
ness  she  naturally  turned  first  to  Napoleorfs 
Oracle,  but  it  told  her  her  dreams  meant 
riches,  which  did  not  interest  her ;  meant  ill 
ness,  which  she  did  not  fear;  meant  that  her 
lover  was  Jake,  for  whom  she  did  not  care ; 
or  that  her  enemy  was  short  and  red-haired, 
whereas  Cordelia  Angeline  Mahoney  was  tall 
and  a  brunette.  At  Madame  Mantilini's  she 
heard  of  a  book  called  Black  Art,  which  she 
found  no  trouble  in  buying.  It  told  her  how 
to  cause  an  enemy  to  die,  how  to  test  a  per 
son's  love,  how  to  bewitch  a  person,  how  to 
invoke  the  terrible  "  seven  curses  "  that  afflict 
a  generation  unborn — and  hundreds  of  such 
wonders.  But  it  recommended  the  use  of 
herbs  of  which  she  had  never  heard,  the  slay 
ing  of  cats,  the  broiling  of  rabbits'  tongues 
and  dogs'  livers,  and  a  multitude  of  things 
that  witches  may  do  and  do  with,  but  not  hon 
est  young  girls.  One  receipt  she  thought  of 
copying  to  send,  in  a  disguised  hand,  to  Yank. 
It  read  :  "  To  test  a  sweetheart :  Rub  the  sap 
of  a  radish  in  her  hand.  If  she  does  not  resist 
she  is  worthy  to  be  a  wife."  But  she  did  not 


LOVE    IN   THE    BIG    BARRACKS  67 

copy  it.  She  was  no  coward.  The  photo 
graph  of  her  rival,  Cordelia,  that  she  had  sent 
in  that  way,  she  knew  could  be  readily  traced 
to  her,  and  yet  of  sending  that  she  remained 
ashamed  ever  afterwards. 

She  had  been  to  more  than  one  fortune 
teller's  when  her  heart  was  free  and  light,  but 
only  for  fun.  Now  she  went  to  one  in  ear 
nest,  taking  with  her  Rosie  Mulvey,  of  the  Big 
Barracks.  She  went  to  Madame  Starr,  in  Ave 
nue  A,  and  was  shown  into  a  room  in  which 
feeble  spirit-lamps  were  burning  under  heavy 
globes,  one  blood-red  and  one  green.  By  their 
faint  light  the  fortune-teller  moved  about  like 
a  shadow.  Her  confederate  sat  with  Rosie 
Mulvey  in  an  anteroom,  and  easily  led  the 
girl  to  tell  all  that  the  madame  needed  to 
know  about  the  cause  of  Elsa's  coming.  A 
pack  of  cards  was  shuffled,  and  worked  unsat 
isfactorily,  and  Elsa  was  asked  to  rub  the  pack 
with  a  half-dollar,  after  which  the  madame  re 
tired,  ostensibly  to  read  the  cards,  in  reality 
to  meet  the  confederate  and  learn  the  client's 
story.  The  room  was  flooded  with  electric  light 
as  Madame  Starr,  re-entering,  pressed  the  neces- 


68  PEOPLE    WE    PASS 

sary  but  hidden  button.  The  cards  again  failed, 
she  said.  They  guided  her  to  where  a  thin 
dark  man  entered  Elsa's  life  and  left  it.  There 
they  stopped.  For  a  silver  dollar  the  madame 
would  enter  the  trance  state,  and  describe  the 
heart  and  thoughts  of  this  man.  Elsa  paid 
the  money,  the  room  became  dark,  and  the 
woman,  after  a  creepy  interval  of  silence,  be 
gan  to  chant  a  mixture  of  fact  and  shrewd 
guess-work,  which  to  Elsa  seemed  little  short 
of  supernatural  divination.  The  gist  of  it  was 
that  the  thin  dark  man  was  in  the  toils  of  a 
designing  woman — tall,  with  ebon  tresses — 
but  he  truly  loved  Elsa,  to  whom  he  was 
powerless  to  return.  Elsa  must  secretly  ad 
minister  a  love-potion  to  the  thin  dark  man  ; 
but  it  would  not  work  its  charm  save  on  her 
luckiest  day,  which  came  once  a  year.  She 
must  come  again  for  the  philter,  which  would 
cost  ten  dollars,  and  then  any  astrologer 
would  determine  for  her  which  day  was  her 
luckiest. 

Ten  dollars  could  not  be  taken  from  the 
family  treasury  for  a  young  girl's  romantic 
nonsense,  though  Elsa's  mother  had  spent 


LOVE    IN   THE    BIG    BAEKACKS  69 

twenty  dollars  to  have  a  German  seer  make 
her  last  baby  boy  brave  and  proof  against 
poison  and  bad  luck  by  writing  Paz  Zap 
Paraz  on  the  baby's  forehead  in  the  blood  of 
a  bear  cub  from  the  Black  Forest.  Elsa  could 
spend  only  three  dollars  for  a  philter,  and  her 
quest  for  one  at  that  price  busied  her  for  a 
fortnight.  She  got  it  at  last,  in  Ninth  Ave 
nue,  of  a  West-Indian  negro,  who  wore  a  wig 
made  of  the  tail  ends  and  head  ends  of  small 
snakes,  that  stuck  out  all  over  it  like  wisps  of 
devils'  hair.  He  said  she  must  wear  only  one 
garment,  and  steal  into  her  lover's  room  and 
put  the  love-potion  in  his  food  without  the 
knowledge  of  any  blood-relation  of  his. 

"Ain't  it  terrible?"  Elsa  asked  Eosie. 
"  S'posin'  I  was  ter  have  on  on'y  one  gar 
ment  an'  was  to  git  caught  ?  I  never  kin  do 
it." 

"  You'll  be  a  livin'  picture.  However  will 
yer  do  it  ?"  Rosie  asked.  But,  presently,  she 
clapped  her  hands  and  exclaimed  :  "  Say  !  I 
know  a  Jim-Dandy  way.  You  kin  put  on 
me  new  shady-go-naked  ;  it'll  cover  yer  from 
yer  neck  to  yer  heels." 


70  PEOPLE    WE    PASS 

"Oh,  Eosie!  will  you  len'  it  to  me?  No 
body  couldn't  suspect  notliin',  if  I  had  that 
on." 

"  Shady-go-naked  "  is  the  expressive  term 
wliich  many  of  the  Irish  use  to  describe  a 
mackintosh  or  rubber  storm-coat. 

In  another  week  Elsa  was  able  to  employ 
an  astrologer  to  read  her  stars  and  fix  her 
luckiest  day.  It  proved  to  be  September 
28th,  and  the  choicest  minute  of  it  was  the 
first  one,  at  sharp  midnight  of  September 
27th.  So  Elsa  at  last  had  her  way  clear  to  re 
gain  her  recreant  lover  with  the  potent  aid 
of  the  stars,  the  gods,  and  the  devils. 

As  she  would  need  the  help  of  the  despised 
but  submissive  Jake  on  the  momentous  day, 
then  three  weeks  off,  Elsa  began  to  be  very 
gracious  to  him,  so  that  presently  she  had  the 
heart  to  ask  him  to  be  sure  to  be  at  her  serv 
ice  on  the  fateful  midnight.  "Sure;  why 
not,  yet?"  was  his  ready  answer.  Her  plan 
was  to  put  the  love-charm  in  certain  edibles 
which  Yank,  who  was  a  newspaper  stereo- 
typer,  had  said  his  mother  always  left  out  for 
him  in  the  kitchen,  against  his  home-coming 


LOVE    IN    THE    BIG   BAKKACKS  71 

at  two  o'clock  in  the  morning.  She  must  en 
ter  his  flat  by  means  of  the  fire-escape  ladders 
that  reached  up  to  it,  two  floors  above  her 
own  home.  The  night  came,  and,  barefooted, 
she  stole  out  with  Jake.  Him  she  sent  ahead 
to  see  that  the  way  was  clear,  and  then  she 
ran  up,  and  sent  him  down  to  watch  below. 
She  succeeded  in  finding  Yank's  supper  of 
baked  beans  and  cold  tea,  and  in  sprinkling 
both  with  the  powder.  But  just  as  she  re 
turned  to  the  fire-balcony  a  noise  in  the  Hurst 
flat  startled  her.  She  leaped  forward,  slipped 
on  something  unsteady,  and  fell  down  the 
ladder-way,  a  dozen  or  fifteen  feet,  upon  her 
back  on  the  under  balcony.  She  was  uncon 
scious  when  Jake  tenderly  carried  her  into 
their  own  flat.  Returning  consciousness  found 
her  screaming  with  the  pain. 

Some  rich  young  philanthropists,  who  main 
tained  a  charity  hospital  near  by,  tried  a  plas 
ter  coat  to  straighten  and  heal  her  back,  but 
the  torture  it  caused  obliged  them  to  strip 
off  the  plaster  before  it  had  hardened.  So 
she  lay  and  moaned  for  weeks.  The  old  wom 
en  who  sat  with  her  mother  every  afternoon 


72  PEOPLE   WE    PASS 

in  the  sitting-room  brought  tidings  of  the  ex 
hibition  in  an  uptown  church  of  two  small 
bits  of  the  bones  of  a  mediaeval  saint,  to  touch 
which  relics  with  faith  was  to  be  cured  of  any 
ailment.  Elsa  would  have  to  make  a  novena, 
or  nine  days'  prayer,  to  obtain  the  miraculous 
relief.  But  the  girl  was  strangely  indifferent 
to  this  chance  of  recovery.  The  truth  was 
that  since  Yank  Hurst  had  not  come  to  tell 
her  of  his  love,  she  did  not  long  to  be  cured. 
She  preferred  to  die.  Before  she  could  be 
brought  to  begin  her  novena  the  sacred  relics 
were  removed  to  a  distant  city.  But  in  the 
mean  time  a  priest  had  come,  and  brought  a 
little  book  prescribing  the  formula  of  a  novena 
to  the  Blessed  Virgin — "  Our  Lady  of  Perpet 
ual  Help,"  she  was  beautifully  called.  Elsa 
read  this  by  snatches,  and  was  greatly  im 
pressed  by  the  statement  that  the  Blessed 
Virgin  denies  absolutely  nothing  that  is  asked 
of  her  with  perfect  faith.  A  new  idea,  a  new 
hope,  came  to  Elsa.  She  sent  for  the  priest, 
and  most  adroitly  cross-examined  him  to  have 
him  confirm,  if  possible,  the  hope  that  a  sup 
pliant  might  make  the  novena  for  any  boon 


A    XOISK    IN    THE    HUKST    FLAT    STARTLED    HER 


LOVE    IN   THE    BIG   BARRACKS  73 

whatsoever.  The  good  man,  fancying  her 
burdened  by  some  weighty  sin,  urged  her  to 
obtain  pardon  through  confession,  and  make 
the  no  vena  afterwards  for  restoration  of  her 
health. 

"  But  please  tell  me,"  she  urged,  "  can  I 
make  a  novena  for  anything  I  want,  even 
money  ?" 

"  You  certainly  can,  my  child,"  said  the 
good  priest. 

Then  into  her  eyes  came  a  new  light,  and  to 
her  heart  a  great  joy.  She  visibly  rallied 
strength  and  patience.  She  was  permitted  to 
make  the  novena  at  home,  before  a  picture  of 
the  Virgin,  and  on  the  ninth  day  she  was  carried 
to  church,  to  complete  the  devotion.  Through 
out  the  ceremony  she  kept  but  one  sentence 
on  her  lips,  and  on  her  mind  but  one  thought, 
and  neither  was  a  prayer  for  health. 

Back  again  in  bed,  she  beckoned  to  Jake, 
and  whispered  :  "  I've  prayed  for  him  to  come 
— for  Yank.  Do  you  think  he  will  ?"  And 
Jake  replied,  "  Sure ;  why  not,  yet?" 

Then  he  went  to  the  Pinochle  Club,  over 
Rag  Murphy's  cafe,  where  he  \vas  heartily 


74  PEOPLE    WE   PASS 

liked,  and  Yank  had  not  one  warm  friend.  In 
a  voice  louder  than  he  intended  to  use,  before 
all  the  fellows,  he  poured  upon  Yank  a  talk 
so  earnest,  and  so  divided  into  pleading  and 
threats  of  physical  violence,  that  the  stereo- 
typer  forgot  to  swagger. 

"  Stuck  on  me  that  bad  ?"  he  exclaimed. 
"  Done  herself  putting  love-stuff  in  me  grub  ? 
The  hell  you  say !  Go  'n'  see  her  ?  "Why 
wouldn't  I?" 

He  called  on  Elsa  straightway,  and  be 
cause  of  his  humanity  —  or  because  Jake's 
threats  rung  in  his  ears  —  he  spoke  to  Elsa 
so  that  she  all  but  swooned  with  joy.  It 
required  very  little  more  than  his  presence  to 
do  that. 

She  died  next  day,  with  her  eyes  upon  a 
broad  beam  of  sunlight  that  fell  full  and  glo 
riously  on  the  lithograph  before  which  she 
had  made  her  novena. 


A  DAY   OF  THE   PINOCHLE   CLUB 

THE  Pinochle  Club  over  Rag  Murphy's 
cafe,  near  the  Big  Barracks  tenement,  is  one 
of  scores  of  New  York  city  clubs  that  are  so 
little  like  our  great  social  clubs  as  to  be  but 
one  notch  above  the  thousands  of  unorgan 
ized  bands  of  men  who  daily  meet  in  our 
saloons — the  clubs  of  the  people.  The  touch 
of  politics  is  needed  to  convert  a  saloon  co 
terie  into  a  district  club,  and  that  touch  the 
Pinochle  Club  enjoys.  The  club -room  is 
an  unattractive,  bare-walled  apartment,  con 
taining  a  few  walnut  card-tables  and  chairs. 
Pinochle  —  a  German  card  game  —  is  little 
played  there.  Poker  is  the  main  source  of 
fun  and  of  the  club's  income.  A  hole  in  one 
wall,  fitted  with  a  sliding-door  to  a  dumb 
waiter,  admits  the  drinks  and  cigars  from 
Rag  Murphy's  gorgeous  "  cafe " — which  is 
New  -  Yorkese  for  dram  -  shop.  Murphy  is 


78  PEOPLE    WE   PASS 

political    "  captain "    of    that    election    dis 
trict. 

In  all  such  places  the  young  men  spend 
most  of  their  time  when  not  at  work  and 
when  out  of  work.  The  tenements  are  too 
crowded  for  use  except  for  the  necessities  of 
eating  and  sleeping.  The  saloons  are  pre 
ferred  to  any  substitutes  which  religion  or 
philanthropy  has  yet  devised,  because  in  them 
the  men  are  treated  respectfully  as  independ 
ent  beings  who  pay  their  way,  and  because 
no  rules  or  Bible  texts  on  the  walls  reflect 
upon  their  civilization  or  morality.  There 
they  get  credit  between  Saturday  and  Satur 
day,  or  even  loans  of  money.  There  they 
gamble,  drink  as  the  best  of  our  ancestors 
used  to,  skylark,  sing,  dance,  and  gossip.  The 
luckiest  are  those  who  make  a  pretence  of 
club  organization  and  ally  themselves  with 
the  political  rulers,  who  owe  them  everything, 
and  pay  them  generously,  asking  only  for  a 
"solid  vote"  from  all  once  a  year.  What 
the  Church  does  for  them  for  the  next  world 
their  political  party  does  in  this.  To  many 
the  "  party "  seems  the  more  substantial 


A   DAY    OF   THE    PINOCHLE    CLUB  79 

friend,  for  it  provides  work  and  wages,  coal 
and  food,  and  loans  of  money,  and  it  procures 
a  tangible  forgiveness  of  sins  by  literally 
pulling  its  votaries  out  of  the  prisons  and  the 
hands  of  the  police. 

The  treasurer  of  the  Pinochle  Club,  Yank 
Hurst,  was  ruining  himself  with  drink,  and 
aggravating  his  troubles  with  jealousy.  He 
had  for  his  sweetheart  Cordelia  Angeline  Ma- 
honey,  the  prettiest  girl  in  the  ward,  but  she 
was  tired  of  him.  As  Cordelia  approached 
the  corner  nearest  her  home  in  the  Big  Bar 
racks  tenement,  coquettish,  stylish,  with  a 
swish  and  a  swing  to  her  skirts,  Yank  stepped 
forward  with  the  hesitating,  nervous,  spas 
modic  movement  of  a  heavy  drinker. 

"  You  left  me  wait  here  half  an  hour," 
said  he. 

"  I'm  only  out  on  an  arrand  now"  said 
Cordelia,  meaning  that  otherwise  he  would 
have  waited  indefinitely.  Even  then  she 
looked  away  from  him,  and  stood  on  one  foot 
and  then  on  the  other,  impatient  to  pass  on. 

"Are  you  tryin'  to  t'row  me  down,  Delia?" 
Yank  asked. 


80  PEOPLE    WE    PASS 

"  Ah,  what's  hurting  you,  Mr.  Hurst  ?  I 
never  gave  you  any  rights  over  inc." 

"  It's  me  er  no  one,  's  I've  told  you  before," 
said  Hurst — "  me  er  no  one,  mind  you." 

"  Ah,  what  would  any  girl  do  with  a  man 
that's  always  full,  like  you  ?"  And  she  swept 
by  contemptuously,  and  an  instant  later  rolled 
her  brown  eyes  at  a  self-satisfied  letter-carrier, 
who,  without  knowing  it,  put  his  life  in  dan 
ger  by  smiling  at  her  in  full  view  of  the  club 
treasurer.  Luckily  Yank  was  too  disturbed 
to  notice  the  flirtation. 

He  had  got  his  dismissal,  but  he  could  not 
realize  it.  He  was  going  to  follow  Cordelia 
and  insist  upon  his  status  as  her  "  best  beau." 
But  what  was  the  use  ?  There  was  time 
enough,  and  he  would  show  her  he  was  not 
to  be  trifled  with.  Presently  he  walked  to 
the  club-room,  a  block  away,  muttering  :  "  It's 
me  er  no  one,  an'  she'll  find  it  out.  Always 
full,  am  I?  Well,  if  I  get  sacked  for  it"  (he 
was  a  stereotyper  for  the  Daily  Camera), 
"  Senator  Eisenstone  '11  have  to  get  me  a  city 
job.  Damn  him,"  said  he,  thinking  with 
what  I  may  call  the  joint  rnind  of  the  whole 


A    DAY    OF   THE    PINOCHLE    CLUB  81 

club,  "  I  wonder  is  he  dead,  that  he  leaves 
his  dee&trict  like  he  does  ?" 

That  was  on  a  Saturday  evening.  At  ten 
o'clock  on  Sunday  morning  the  Pinochle  mem 
bers  began  to  gather  in  front  of  Murphy's  to 
see  the  girls  go  to  and  from  late  mass.  Those 
who  came  along  one  by  one  and  joined  the 
group  were  good-looking  German  Americans 
and  Irish  Americans,  with  sturdy  necks  and 
deep  chests  and  reasonably  frank  faces.  They 
knew  little  of  American  history  and  less  of 
true  public  morality,  but  they  were  good  ac 
cording  to  their  lights ;  moderately  temper 
ate,  still  more  law-abiding,  and  aiming  to  do 
six  days'  work  a  week  as  mechanics,  store 
porters,  barbers,  truckmen,  clerks,  and  labor 
ers.  It  would  astonish  most  Europeans  to 
see  that  they  dressed  well,  in  clothes  of  the 
prevailing  cut  and  materials.  Every  one  was 
known  by  his  given  name  or  nickname. 
" H'are yer, Limpy ?"  "Hullo, Bill!"  ''Morn 
ing,  Tommy;"  "Ve  gates,  Dutch?"— thus 
the  new-coiners  were  saluted.  And  each  re 
plied,  politely,  "Good-morning,  gents." 

"  Is  dat  mug  been  around  ?    Dat  mug  dat 


82  PEOPLE    WE    PASS 

chucked  us  der  slack  las'  Sunday?"    So  one 
inquired  as  he  joined  the  group. 

He  broached  a  subject  keenly  interesting 
to  all  of  them,  and  would  have  gained  the 
attention  of  every  man  in  the  party  were  it 
not  that  the  women  were  beginning  to  pass 
on  their  way  to  church. 

"  You  mean  the  hayseed  on  the  police  ? 
Ah,  there,  Julia  !  Oh,  my !  Get  on  to  Julia's 
new  dress !" 

"  Dat's  dandy,  Julia.  Say,  Julia,  will  you 
wear  dat  to  de  chowder  wid  me  when — " 

"  Cheese  it,  Bill !  Here's  her  old  woman. 
Good-mornin',  Mrs.  Moriarty ;  good-mornin', 
Mrs.  Riordan." 

"  Good-marnin',  gintlemen,"  said  Mrs.  Mori 
arty.  "  Can't  yez  1'ave  the  corner  long  enough 
to  go  to  church  ?  Ye'd  oughter  set  betther 
manners  to  yer  fri'nds,  Johnny  Callahan  ;  and 
you  too,  Tim  Donahue." 

"  I  was  at  church  already — two  hours  ago, 
Mrs.  Moriarty,"  said  Callahan. 

"  I  don'  know  as  he's  a  hayseed,"  said  the- 
one  who  first  spoke  of  the  policeman  on  that 
beat,  "  but  I  mean  der  cop  dat  give  us  der 


A    DAY    OF   THE    PINOCHLE    CLUB  83 

chase  inside  when  we  was  standin'  here  las' 
Sunday." 

"  Cert'nly  he's  a  hayseed,"  said  Callahan. 
"  Couldn't  you  tell  it  by  the  look  of  him  ? 
The  policQ  had  to  get  votes  for  something  er 
other,  and  they  gave  out  places  on  the  force 
to  the  farmers  in  the  Legislature,  and  this 
feller  that  gave  us  the  chase  was  got  on  by  a 
farmer  that's  a  Senator  from  the  northern 
end  of  the  State.  He  hain't  been  'round 
yet." 

"What  '11  we  do?"  Dutch  Kollock  in 
quired.  "  Will  we  down  him  ?  Dey  can't 
do  nartin'  to  us.  I'm  williri'  to  tear  de  clo'se 
off  his  back  if  youse  fellers  '11  jump  in  an' 
t'ump  him.  We  got  pull  enough  fer  dat, 
hain't  we?" 

"  Now  that  don't  go — see  ?"  said  Callahan. 
"  When  Rag  Murphy  can't  keep  that  feller 
off  of  us,  what's  the  good  of  talking  about 
our  pull  ?" 

A  pull,  the  reader  understands,  is  political 
influence,  such  as  redresses  a  man's  own 
grievances  and  permits  him  to  wrong  oth 
ers  with  impunity.  The  possession  of  "the 


84  PEOPLE    WE    PASS 

pull"  has  created  a  political  aristocracy  in 
New  York. 

"  I  don't  want  no  scrapping  anyhow,"  said 
Tim  Donahue.  "  This  ain't  no  tough  mob. 
We're  the  cream  of  the  ward.  Slugging 
people  don't  go — see  ?" 

"  Naw,"  said  two  or  three,  heartily.  "  We're 
dead  decent,  we  are." 

"  If  that  hayseed  gives  us  trouble,"  said 
Callahan,  "  I'll  take  it — like  medicine.  But 
what  pull — ah!  morn  in',  Miss  Vleimer;  rnorn- 
in',  Rosey  Mulvey — ah,  there,  my  size  ! — what 
pull  have  we  got?  You  can't  see  it  without 
a  telerscope.  The  Senator  went  to  Germany 
an'  left  us  in  the  cold  for  two  months.  Two 
of  our  fellers  got  chucked  out  of  the  ap 
praiser's  stores,  and  Jennings  got  fired  from 
the  post-office.  Now  the  Senator's  stuck 
on  a  rich  lady  in  Harlem,  and  he's  always 
there,  like  Harlem  Bridge.  And  here  we 
are,  chased  around  like  bums  in  the  Park." 

"  I  suppose  if  der  Senator  catches  on  to  a 
lady,  his  old  friends  won't  be  good  enough 
fer  him.  What  does  he  want  to  get  married 
out  of  der  district  fer,  anyhow  ?" 


A    DAY    OF    THE    PINOCHLE    CLUB  85 

"  Fer  der  shoog,  I  guess,"  said  one,  who 
abbreviated  the  word  "  sugar,"  which  stands 
for  money  in  their  lexicon. 

"  It's  for  money ;  ain't  it  funny  ?"  sang  a 
light-hearted  juvenile  in  the  background. 

"  Well,"  said  Callahan,  "  I  tell  you,  fellers, 
Rag  Murphy  don't  like  the  way  things  is 
goin' — the  hull  district  is  gittin'  dead  sore." 

"  Oh,  rats  !"  said  Tim  Donahue.  "  Hello  ! 
Look,  gents,  here  comes  Cordelia  Mahoney. 
Ain't  she  a  loo-loo?  She's — oh,  my!  Wait 
till  I  win  a  smile  off  her  pretty  face,  an'  I'll 
get  good-luck  for  a  week.  Say,  fellers,  thump 
me  if  Chop  Miller  ain't  with  her !  If  Yank 
Hurst  gets  on  to  that,  he'll  be  hot  in  the 
collar." 

"  Yank's  dead  crazy  after  Miss  Mahoney." 

"Yes,  and  she  don't  care  a  nickel  for  him. 
Say,  there'll  be  music  if  Yank  gets  on  to  Chop 
Miller  being  with  her.  Good-mornin',  Miss 
Mahoney ;  hello,  Chop,  old  man  !" 

"Well,  as  I  was  a-sayin',"  Donahue  con 
tinued,  "  the  Senator  is  all  right.  He's  back 
home,  an'  he'll  fix  things  to  the  Queen's  taste. 
I  know  the  Senator,  an'  he  knows  us.  He 


86  PEOPLE    WE    PASS 

knows  he  was  nothin'  but  Motser  *  Mose  when 
we  took  him  up  and  gave  him  his  start,  in  the 
Assembly.  Didn't  the  club  turn  down  Mat 
Kelly  when  he  was  Assemblyman  ?  We  was 
Republicans  then.  Kelly  got  the  big  head, 
and  neglected  the  boys,  and  wouldn't  go  to 
our  ball,  but  sent  a  hundred  dollars  instead. 
Well,  Murphy  took  up  Mose  Eisenstone 
against  Kelly,  and  we  mopped  the  deestrict 
with  him,  all  turning  Democrats  to  elect  him. 
We  don't  forget  that,  and  he  can't  afford  to 
—see?" 

Nevertheless,  the  talk  that  followed  showed 
that  the  obtuse  activity  of  their  new  perse 
cutor  on  the  police  force  disturbed  them,  and 
that  their  political  patronage  had  been  weak 
ened  by  ill-luck  due  to  their  leader's  absence. 
It  behooved  the  Senator  to  return  and  let  the 
district  feel  his  directing  and  friendly  hand. 
One  knot  of  gossips  showed  a  keener  interest 
in  the  appearance  of  Cordelia  Mahoney  with 
Chop  Miller,  the  rival  of  Yank  Hurst.  Though 
Hurst  was  treasurer,  he  was  not  generally 

*  From  the  Hebrew  matzoth,  meaning  ' '  unleavened 
bread,"  but  here  used  as  a  nickname  for  a  Hebrew. 


A    DAY    OF   THE    PINOCHLE    CLUB  87 

liked.  He  was  too  much  inclined  towards 
"toughness" — that  lawless  pugnacity  which 
distinguishes  a  great  mass  of  New  York  street 
youth  apart  from  all  other  bodies  of  the  poor 
in  the  other  capitals  of  the  world.  But  Hurst 
was  one  of  the  Senator's  favorites,  and  had 
what  the  Senator  wanted  him  to  have  in  re 
turn  for  close  personal  service  to  the  great 
man. 

The  girls  and  women  soon  came  back  from 
church,  thick  and  fast.  They  made  a  pretty 
nutter  in  the  street.  Unlike  the  tenement 
men,  they  do  not  call  for  praise  coupled  with 
apologies  or  weakened  by  reservations.  Like 
all  women,  they  have  their  higher  atmosphere 
of  morality  and  polish,  to  which  their  sterner 
companions  neither  penetrate  nor  aspire.  As 
usual,  they  showed  their  peculiar  fondness  for 
red,  green,  and  pink  dresses,  and  for  fresh 
hats  and  bonnets  bravely  decked  with  false 
flowers  and  green  leaves.  Alas !  only  the 
little  girls  were  prettily  shod.  Their  mothers 
and  elder  sisters  exposed  foxy  and  spreading 
shoes.  But  who  looked  so  far  from  their 
faces,  so  certain  to  reveal  the  types  of  all 


88  PEOPLE    WE    PASS 

styles  of  the  beauty  of  our  theatrical  and  so 
cial  queens? — some  of  these  types  being  pret 
tier,  by-the-way,  in  the  rough  than  in  the 
more  delicate  forms. 

The  clubmen  looked  at,  but  without  seeing 
it,  their  own  peculiar  neighborhood,  with  its 
towering  walls  of  tenements  fretted  with  fire- 
escapes  and  peppered  with  windows.  It  was 
not  true  that  within  their  vision  every  tene 
ment  supported  a  beer-saloon,  but  it  was  near 
ly  so.  Could  the  reader  see  how  much  beer 
is  drank  in  this  typical  district — how  the  men, 
women,  and  children  wag  forever  between 
the  saloons  and  the  homes,  with  those  cans 
and  pitchers  they  call  "growlers,"  he  would 
wonder  how  so  much  luxury — even  if  it  is 
all  of  one  kind — could  be  afforded  by  people 
so  poor.  But  they  are  not  so  poor  as  most 
of  us  think.  Many  are  not  poor  at  all;  many 
are  poor  only  as  they  make  themselves  so.  As 
a  rule,  each  family  includes  several  wage-earn 
ers,  worth  to  the  common  treasury  five  dollars 
a  week  apiece.  The  rent  of  each  flat  is  little; 
the  cost  of  food  is  less  than  most  of  us  would 
believe  possible,  for  these  people  only  eat  to 


A    DAY    OF   THE    PINOCHLE    CLUB  89 

live.  There  is  left  plenty  of  money  for  dress, 
cheap  life-insurance,  father-land  societies,  for 
charity  to  organ-grinders  and  beggars,  for  the 
church,  funerals,  festivals  —  and  beer.  The 
beer-saloons  are  in  the  side  streets,  under  the 
tenements,  handy  for  the  "  growlers,"  and 
supported  by  the  women.  The  full-fledged 
liquor-stores — beside  which  the  famed  gin-pal 
aces  of  London  are  cheap  and  solemn — are 
on  the  side-street  corners,  maintained  by  the 
tenement  men  and  the  cross -town  trade. 
There  are  no  drug-shops,  or  furniture,  carpet, 
or  hardware  stores  in  such  a  district.  They 
are  in  Grand  Street  and  in  the  Bowery,  serving 
a  whole  quarter  of  the  city.  The  groceries 
are  few  and  small  and  wretched;  the  butcher 
shops  look  like  bait  for  flies.  The  smallness 
and  idleness  of  even  the  tobacco-shops  are  elo 
quent  of  a  protest  against  the  bias  towards  beer. 
One  shop  alone  in  the  Big  Barracks  neigh 
borhood  vies  with  the  gorgeous  dram-shops 
and  outshines  the  beer-saloons.  That  is  the 
marble -lined  shop  of  a  delicatessen  -  dealer, 
whose  second  wife  works  amicably  beside  the 
first  wife,  No.  1  having  come  over  from  Ger- 


90  PEOPLE    WE    PASS 

many  when  the  merchant  became  rich,  but 
only  to  find  that  a  second  marriage  made  him 
so — a  marriage  with  a  wealthy  widow  of  im 
measurable  amiability,  the  motto  of  whose 
placid  life  is,  "All  is  goot  so  long  I  don't  have 
drouble." 

Something  else  than  all  this  interested  the 
Pinochlers.  It  was  the  approach  of  the  new 
policeman,  who,  a  week  before,  had  ordered 
them  not  to  loiter  on  that  corner.  A  stalwart, 
fearless  fellow,  he  had  been  handsome  as  well, 
but  his  good  looks  were  now  lost  sight  of  un 
der  bits  of  court -plaster  and  several  ugly 
bruises,  mementos  of  a  recent  "  razzle-dazzle." 
This  form  of  initiation  and  test  of  new  police 
men  in  lawless  neighborhoods  had  been  ob 
served  in  his  case  in  another  end  of  the  ward. 
There  he  had  been  led  to  chase  a  rowdy  into 
a  tenement -house  fixed  for  the  occasion,  with 
ropes  across  the  pitch-dark  stairways,  coal 
scuttles  in  the  still  darker  halls,  and  a  rain  and 
fusillade  of  missiles  and  blows  wherever  he 
went,  from  basement  door  to  skylight.  Still, 
he  carried  his  pluck  undiluted. 

"  Come,  now,  young  fellows,"  he  said  to  the 


A   DAY    OF  THE   PINOCHLE    CLUB  91 

Pinochlers;  "  I  told  you  not  to  loaf  here,  and  I 
meant  it.  Move  on,  now,  and  don't  come 
back." 

"  A-a-a-h,"  said  one  Pinochler,  with  the 
tiger  snarl  of  the  street  boy,  "  we  ain't  doin' 
nartin' !" 

"  But  I  am,"  said  the  officer ;  "  I'm  doing 
my  duty,  and  you'll  have  to  move  on." 

"All  right,"  said  Donahue,"  we'll  sash-shay  ; 
but  we  belong  here,  an'  you'll  get  the  worst  of 
it  for  chasin'  us — see  ?" 

"  That  '11  do,  now,"  said  the  bluecoat,  firm 
ly.  "  Move  on,  and  don't  let  me  catch  you 
here  again." 

"Come  along,  gents;  come  on,  Dutch," 
said  Callahan,  particularly  addressing  Kollock, 
who  did  not  budge. 

"Naw — I  wun't,"  said  Kollock,  rooting 
himself  on  his  legs,  and  assuming  the  bull-like 
stare  of  an  ugly  New  York  loafer  at  bay., 

The  policeman  touched  Kollock  lightly  on 
the  arm,  and  instantly  Kollock  struck  him  a 
frightful  blow  in  the  face.  The  officer 
stepped  back  to  find  and  use  his  club,  but  Kol 
lock  sprang  forward  and  dealt  him  another 


92  PEOPLE   WE    PASS 

blow  —  that  might  stagger  an  ox.  They 
clinched,  and  began  a  rough-and-tumble  bat 
tle  in  a  heap  on  the  pavement,  now  with  one 
on  top,  and  now  with  that  one  under.  The 
usual  crowd  piled  from  the  pavement  to  the 
windows  and  thus  up  to  the  roofs,  with  scream 
ing  women,  with  the  inevitable  appearance  of 
the  offender's  mother — these  were  the  accom 
paniments  of  the  fight.  It  ended  with  Kol- 
lock's  journey  to  the  station-house.  The 
Pinochlers  were  dumfounded.  Up  to  that 
man's  coming  the  police  had  deferred  to  them. 
Life  and  luck  seemed  savorless.  And  Senator 
Eisenstone  was  love-making  miles  away! 

In  the  club-room,  in  the  afternoon,  the  first- 
comers  surprised  Tommy  Dugan  flinging  his 
legs  about,  with  the  place  all  to  himself,  prac 
tising  a  new  jig  step  he  had  seen  at  the  Lon 
don  Theatre.  Dugan  had  not  the  first  ambi 
tion  of  a  tenement  boy,  which  is  to  be  a  poli 
tician  ;  but  lie  nursed  the  fifth,  which  is  to  be  a 
song-and-dance  "artist."  He  stopped  jigging 
when  one  of  the  new-comers  whistled  a  bar  of 
the  "  Shatchen's  Song,"  the  newest  ballad  by 
Eugene  Kelly,  the  song-writer,  who  lived  near 


A   DAY    OF    THE    PINOCHLE    CLUB  93 

by.  It  was  being  sung,  with  five  encores,  at 
the  Vaudeville  Music  Hall.  The  instant  the 
first  notes  struck  the  ears  of  the  young  men 
they  were  all  attention.  With  them  one  must 
know  the  favorite  song  of  the  moment,  else 
he  might  as  well  be  a  deaf-mute,  or  in  jail. 

"Say,  fellers,"  said  one,  "youse  dat  knows 
de  'Shatchen's  Song'  all  stand  togedder  an' 
cough  it  out,  an'  de  rest  kin  sneak  in  on  de 
chorus.  Den  we  kin  learn  it — see  ?" 

It  was  a  spirited,  melodious  tune  that  welled 
from  the  throats  of  the  clubmen.  The  awk 
ward  verse  described  the  vocation  of  a  shat- 
chen,  or  marriage  -  broker,  among  the  Polish 
and  Russian  Jews  of  the  East  Side. 

"  Say,  dat's  great !"  cried  one  of  the  vocal 
ists.  "  Tommy  Dugan,  come  in  wid  de  tara- 
ra — see  2" 

Coming  in  with  the  tarara  consists  in  intro 
ducing  that  sound  at  the  major  pauses  in  a 
song,  as  one  sometimes  hears  the  bass  in  a 
brass  band.  Thus  the  song  was  repeated : 

I'm  Levi,  the  sliatchen,  von  Hester  Street ; 

Tarara. 
I'll  get  you  all  partners  that  can't  be  beat. 


94  PEOPLE    WE    PASS 

I  tell  the  girls,  if  a  man  one  fancies 

Tarara, 

Offers  marriage,  just  take  no  chances. 
I  say  to  the  men,  "If  you  ask  but  a  kiss, 

Tarara. 
Don't  let  her  whisper — that  isn't  biz." 

Get  it  in  writing,  I  say  to  you, 
Men  and  girls  and  widows  old  ; 

Get  it  in  writing,  then  you  can  sue. 
Naught  heals  a  heart  like  good  yellow  gold. 

"  Hully  Moses,  but  dat's  great !"  shouted 
the  youth  who  might  be  called  the  leader  of 
the  concert.  "Say,  now,  youse  fellers  dat 
ain't  siugin'  nor  nartin',  come  in  wid  de  street 
cries  bertween  de  lines — de  way  youse  done 
at  de  chowder,  an'  at  de  ball  las'  winter.  Dat 
'11  be  corkin'  wid  dis  song." 

Very  clever  mimics  are  the  theatre -bred 
boys  and  young  men  of  the  tenements,  and 
a  keen  sense  of  humor  strengthens  their  per 
formances.  They  can  parrot  every  familiar 
street  call,  and  on  this  occasion  the  one  who 
called  out  "  War  Cry,  ten  cents,"  imitated 
the  rich  girlish  voice  of  a  young  Salvation 
Army  lass  so  cleverly  that  his  associates  inter 
rupted  their  singing  to  laugh  aloud.  The  ef- 


A   DAY    OF   THE    PINOCHLE    CLUB  95 

feet  of  the  song  rendered  with  that  strange 
accompaniment  was  like  hearing  a  band  of 
street  singers  through  the  noises  of  Grand 
Street  on  Saturday  night. 

Get  it  in  writing,  I  say  to  you, 

iStrawberreez  !    Strawbaze  !  ! 
Lozengers,  cent  a  pack! 

Men  and  girls  and  widows  old  ; 

Annie  Rags!  ould  ire-run! 
•     Ould  bottles  !  War  Cry,  ten  cents  ! 
Orngeez!   Chairs  ter  mend! 

Get  it  in  writing,  then  you  can  sue. 

Sellee-yar,  fine  clams!  sellee- 
Yarf    Porgies!  oh,  p-o-r-gies! — 
Twenny-eigJit  Street  next — 
Fine  clams,  sellee-yar  ! 

Naught  heals  a  heart  like  good  yellow  gold. 

"  Oh,  but  dat's  dandy !"  said  the  leader. 
"  We'll  paralyze  de  gang  wid  dat,  when  dey's 
all  here  to-night." 

The  song  and  the  joyous  spirit  of  the  occa 
sion  were  abruptly  broken  off  by  the  arrival 
of  Yank  Hurst,  who  darted  in,  slammed  the 
door,  and  stood  before  the  others,  white,  hag 
gard,  trembling — like  a  coward  who  has  seen 
a  ghost. 


96  PEOPLE    WE   PASS 

"  I've  cut  a  man,"  said  he.  "  For  God's 
sake,  hide  me !  Give  me  whiskey,  quick ! 
They're  after  me." 

He  had  been  drinking  down  to  the  verge  of 
delirium.  He  was  pitiful  to  see  and  hear. 

"Who'd  you  cut?" 

"  Chop  Miller.  Quick,  they're  after  me.  Pie 
come  between  me  and  me  girl.  Give  me  whis 
key,  will  yer? — and  put  me  somewhere." 

As  he  spoke,  Dutch  Jake,  the  iceman,  swung 
into  the  room  and  flung  himself  upon  the 
wretched  outlaw.  Jake  had  a  new  grudge 
against  Hurst  in  addition  to  his  resentment  of 
Hurst's  treatment  of  his  little  playmate,  Elsa 
Muller,  as  set  forth  in  the  story  called  "  Love 
in  a  Tenement."  He  hit  Hurst  a  blow  which 
sent  him  across  the  room  and  against  the  wall 
like  a  baseball  hot  from  a  bat.  An  outcry 
of  surprise  and  protest  arose. 

"  Keep  away,  gents,"  said  Jake.  He  spoke 
with  the  German  pronunciation  that  is  almost 
as  common  as  the  Irish.  "  He  cut  Chop  Mil 
ler  in  ter  back,  like  a  coward,  an'  he  sait  he't 
serve  me  ter  same.  JSTow  let  him  put  up  his 
hants."  Again  he  struck  the  wretch,  who  did 


A   DAY    OF   THE    PINOCHLE    CLUB  97 

raise  his  hands,  but  only  to  ward  off  the  blow 
that  beat  him  back  against  the  wall. 

"  He'll  be  in  ter  electric  chair  in  Sing  Sing 
pefore  I'll  get  a  chance  at  him  again,"  said 
Jake,  and  again  he  hit  the  club  treasurer,  who 
fell  like  a  log  on  the  floor. 

"  Cheese  it !  Der  cop's  cornin',"  said  a  boy, 
who  darted  in.  "  He's  close  to  der  door." 

Airing  on  a  line  out  of  the  back  window 
was  a  large  heavy  rug.  Two  men  dragged  it 
in  and,  pulling  the  insensible  treasurer  against 
a  wall,  threw  it  over  him.  It  made  a  great 
heap  that  more  than  covered  the  criminal. 
Two  or  three  men  tore  off  their  coats  and 
threw  them  on  the  rug.  Just  as  the  irrepres 
sible  new  policeman  entered  the  room,  Tom 
my  Dugan  lounged  over  to  the  rug  heap,  sat 
on  it,  and  nonchalantly  spat  from  it  to  the  op 
posite  surbase.  The  officer  looked  the  crowd 
of  young  men  over,  and  saw  Hurst's  blood  on 
Dutch  Jake's  hands.  He  asked  how  it  came 
there. 

"  Been  scrapping,"  said  Jake. 

"  Who  with  ?" 

"  Wit'  a  frient." 


98  PEOPLE   WE    PASS 

"Are  you  Yank  Hurst?  Boys,  is  his  name 
Hurst?" 

"  Naw,"  in  a  chorus. 

" Do  you  know  where  he  is?" 

"  Hain't  seen  him  to-day." 

The  officer  knew  Dugan.  He  bade  him 
name  every  man  in  the  room.  Dugan  named 
all  but  the  one  under  the  rug.  Suspecting  no 
trickery,  the  officer  went  away. 

The  next  notable  incident  was  the  arrival 
of  Senator  Eisenstone,  happening  in  most  op 
portunely.  He  found  a  gloomy  assemblage, 
with  Hurst  lying  like  a  sack  across  a  table. 
The  Senator  would  have  looked  well  any 
where,  but  just  there  he  appeared  heaven 
sent,  radiant — like  an  angel. 

"  Fetch  some  wine,"  said  he  to  the  waiter. 
He  was  as  cool  as  if  he  had  been  to  Coney  Isl 
and  and  brought  it  back  with  him.  In  the 
lapel  of  his  neat  new  black  coat  he  wore  a  car 
nation.  His  light  checked  trousers  were  new 
ly  creased,  his  russet  shoes  shone  with  the 
bloom  of  new  leather,  his  silk  hat  caught  the 
light  so  as  to  form  a  halo  above  his  head. 

"  Well,  boys,"  said  he,  "  here  goes.     I  hear 


A    DAY    OF   THE    PINOCHLE    CLUB  99 

that  a  new  cop  has  been  making  trouble.  He 
will  be  chasing  goats  in  Mott  Haven  di 
rectly.  I'll  have  him  transferred.  Who  do 
you  want  in  his  place  ?  Farrelley,  eh  ?  I'll 
see  that  he  gets  this  post.  One  of  our  fellows 
locked  up?  Kollock?  You  don't  say?  I'll 
step  up  to  the  station-house  and  get  him  out. 
Here  [to  the  waiter]  —  here's  a  dollar  for  the 
drinks  when  Kollock  gets  back  from  the  cool 
er.  And  say,  Barney,  will  you  go  to  Hurst's 
old  woman  and  give  her  this  five  dollars,  and 
tell  her  not  to  worry  about  Yank?  Thank 
you,  Barney.  Tell  Yank's  old  woman  I'm 
looking  out  for  him." 

"  What  '11  we  do  about  Yank,  Senator  ?"  Cal- 
lahan  asked,  as  he  drained  his  champagne  glass. 

"  Keep  him  shady,"  said  the  district  leader. 
"  What's  the  matter  with  keeping  him  here  a 
day  or  two,  till  we  see  is  the  man  he  cut  bad 
ly  hurt  or  not?  I  hear  'tisn't  serious.  Some 
of  you  must  pull  that  fellow  off,  and  let  him 
drop  the  thing  and  not  prosecute.  Stake  him 
with  a  little  money  if  you  have  to.  If  he's 
ugly,  what  good  '11  it  do  him  ?  There  were 
no  witnesses,  were  there  ?n 


100  PEOPLE   WE    PASS 

"Damned  a  one,"  said  Barney  Kelly. 

"  Then  Yank  '11  be  able  to  make  out  a  case 
of  self-defence,  with  all  the  witnesses  he 
wants." 

"'Twasn't  self-defence,"  said  Dutch  Jake. 
"  It  was  a  mean,  cowardly — " 

"I  understand,"  said  the  Senator.  "Yank's 
been  hitting  the  bottle  till  he  was  crazy — but 
I'll  stand  by  him  this  time,  anyhow.  That's 
me,  lads,  and  you  know  it." 

With  applause  and  admiration  shining  upon 
him  from  every  face,  the  Senator  slipped  out 
of  the  club,  and  stopped  a  moment  in  the  cafe 
to  tell  Rag  Murphy  that  if  he  knew  of  any 
needy  men  in  the  club  he  could  place  one  in 
the  navy-yard,  one  on  the  Brooklyn  Bridge, 
and  a  couple  on  the  elevated  railway — perqui 
sites  of  Murphy's  captaincy  that  would  in 
crease  his  political  strength.  Thus  did  the 
suave  and  genial  Senator  dissipate  the  gloom 
at  the  Pinochle  Club.  Thus  he  distracted  the 
attention  of  the  members  from  their  misfort 
unes,  and,  indeed,  made  those  sorrows  seem 
trivial. 

"  I  don't  care,"  said  Dutch  Jake ;  "  ter  Sen- 


A  DAY  OF  THE  PINOCHLE  CLUB      101 

ator's  all  right,  but  Hurst  has  left  a  stain  on 
ter  club." 

"Naw,  he  ain't,"  said  Tim  Donahue.  "Dere 
ain't  no  stain  on  us  if  the  name  of  the  club 
don't  get  into  the  noozepapers." 

"  That's  so,  Tim,"  said  the  others. 

Ten  minutes  later  Kollock  came  back  from 
the  lock-up.  One  eye  was  closed,  and  his 
clothing  was  sadly  torn,  but  his  thirst  was  nor 
mal.  His  return  seemed  a  guarantee  that  the 
new  policeman  would  disappear  on  the  mor 
row,  and  that,  somehow  or  other,  the  Senator 
would  bring;  Yank  Hurst  out  of  his  trouble 

O 

unpunished.  The  Pinochle  Club  was  itself 
again. 

And  even  Cordelia  Angeline  Mahoney  was 
in  quite  as  high  spirits  on  her  way  to  a  sum 
mer  night's  ball  at  Jones's  Wood  with  a  new 
admirer. 


CORDELIA  S   NIGHT  OF   ROMANCE  ypfv 


CORDELIA'S   NIGHT   OF  ROMANCE 

CORDELIA  ANGELINE  MAHONEY  was  dress 
ing,  as  she  would  say,  "  to  keep  a  date  "  with  a 
beau,  who  would  soon  be  waiting  on  the  cor 
ner  nearest  her  home  in  the  Big  Barracks  ten 
ement-house.  She  smiled  as  she  heard  the 
shrill  catcall  of  a  lad  in  Forsyth  Street.  She 
knew  it  was  Dutch  Johnny's  signal  to  Chris- 
sie  Bergen  to  come  down  and  meet  him  at 
the  street  doorway.  Presently  she  heard  an 
other  call — a  birdlike  whistle — and  she  knew 
which  boy's  note  it  was,  and  which  girl  it 
called  out  of  her  home  for  a  sidewalk  stroll. 
She  smiled,  a  trifle  sadly,  and  yet  triumphant 
ly.  She  had  enjoyed  herself  when  she  was  no 
wiser  and  looked  no  higher  than  the  younger 
Barracks  girls,  who  took  up  the  boys  of  the 
neighborhood  as  if  there  were  no  others. 

She  was  in  her  own  little  dark  inner  room, 
which  she  shared  with  only  two  others  of  the 


106  PEOPLE    WE    PASS 

family,  arranging  a  careful  toilet  by  kerosene- 
light.  The  photograph  of  herself  in  trunks 
and  tights,  of  which  we  heard  in  the  story  of 
Elsa  Muller's  hopeless  love,  was  before  her, 
among  several  portraits  of  actresses  and  sala 
ried  beauties.  She  had  taken  them  out  from 
under  the  paper  in  the  top  drawer  of  the  bu 
reau.  She  always  kept  them  there,  and  al 
ways  took  them  out  and  spread  them  in  the 
lamp-light  when  she  was  alone  in  her  room. 
She  glanced  approvingly  at  the  portrait  of 
herself  as  a  picture  of  which  she  had  said  to 
more  than  one  girlish  confidante  that  it  showed 
as  neat  a  figure  and  as  perfectly  shaped  limbs 
as  any  actress's  she  had  ever  seen.  But  the 
suggestion  of  a  frown  flitted  across  her  brow 
as  she  thought  how  silly  she  was  to  have  once 
been  "stage-struck"  —  how  foolish  to  have 
thought  that  mere  beauty  could  quickly  raise 
a  poor  girl  to  a  high  place  on  the  stage.  Julia 
Fogarty's  case  proved  that.  Julia  and  she 
were  stage-struck  together,  and  where  was 
Julia  —  or  Corynne  Belvedere,  as  she  now 
called  herself?  She  started  well  as  a  figu 
rante  in  a  comic  opera  company  uptown,  but 


ARRANGING    A    CAKKFUL    TO1LKT    BV    KKKOSKNK  LIGHT 


CORDELIA'S  NIGHT  OF  ROMANCE          107 

from  that  she  dropped  to  a  female  minstrel 
troupe  in  the  Bowery,  and  now,  Lewy  Tusch 
told  Cordelia,  she  was  "  tooing  ter  skirt-tan ce 
in  ter  pickernic  parks  for  ter  sick-baby  fund, 
ant  passin'  ter  hat  arount  afterwarts."  And 
evil  was  being  whispered  of  her — a  pretty 
high  price  to  pay  for  such  small  success ;  and 
it  must  be  true,  because  she  sometimes  came 
home  late  at  night  in  cabs,  which  are  devilish, 
except  when  used  at  funerals. 

It  was  Cordelia  who  attracted  Elsa  Muller's 
sweetheart,  Yank  Hurst,  to  her  side,  and  left 
Elsa  to  die  yearning  for  his  return.  And  it 
was  Cordelia  who  threw  Hurst  aside  when  he 
took  to  drink  and  stabbed  the  young  man 
who,  during  a  mere  walk  from  church,  took 
his  place  beside  Cordelia.  And  yet  Cordelia 
was  only  ambitious,  not  wicked.  Few  men 
live  who  would  not  look  twice  at  her.  She 
was  not  of  the  stunted  tenement  type,  like 
her  friends  Eosey  Mulvey  and  Minnie  Bech- 
man  and  Julia  Moriarty.  She  was  tall  and 
large  and  stately,  and  yet  plump  in  every  out 
line.  Moreover,  she  had  the  "style"  of  an 
American  girl,  and  looked  as  well  in  five  dol- 

7 


108  PEOPLE    WE    PASS 

lars'  worth  of  clothes — all  home-made,  except 
her  shoes  and  stockings — as  almost  any  girl  in 
richer  circles.  It  was  too  bad  that  she  was 
called  a  flirt  by  the  young  men,  and  a  stuck- 
up  thing  by  the  girls,  when  in  fact  she  was 
merely  more  shrewd  and  calculating  than  the 
others,  who  were  content  to  drift  out  of  the 
primary  schools  into  the  shops,  and  out  of  the 
shops  into  haphazard  matrimony.  Cordelia 
was  not  lovable,  but  not  all  of  us  are  who 
may  be  better  than  she.  She  was  monopolized 
by  the  hope  of  getting  a  man  ;  but  a  mere  al 
liance  with  trousers  was  not  the  sum  of  her 
hope ;  they  must  jingle  with  coin. 

It  was  strange,  then,  that  she  should  be 
dressing  to  meet  Jerry  Donahue,  who  was  no 
better  than  gilly  to  the  Commissioner  of  Pub 
lic  Works,  drawing  a  small  salary  from  a  clerk 
ship  he  never  filled,  while  he  served  the  Com 
missioner  as  a  second  left-hand.  But  if  we 
could  see  into  Cordelia's  mind  we  would  be 
surprised  to  discover  that  she  did  not  regard 
herself  as  flesh-and-blood  Mahoney,  but  as  ro 
mantic  Clarice  Delamour,  and  she  only  thought 
of  Jerry  as  James  the  butler.  The  voracious 


CORDELIA'S  NIGHT  OF  ROMANCE          109 

reader  of  the  novels  of  to-day  will  recall  the 
story  of  Clarice,  or  Only  a  Lady's  -  Maid, 
which  many  consider  the  best  of  the  several 
absorbing  tales  that  Lulu  Jane  Til  ley  has  writ 
ten.  Cordelia  had  read  it  twenty  times,  and 
almost  knew  it  by  heart.  Her  constant  dream 
was  that  she  could  be  another  Clarice,  and 
shape  her  life  like  hers.  The  plot  of  the 
novel  needs  to  be  briefly  told,  since  it  guided 
Cordelia's  course. 

Clarice  was  maid  to  a  wealthy  society  dow 
ager.  James  the  butler  fell  in  love  with  Cla 
rice  when  she  first  entered  the  household,  and 
she,  hearing  the  servants'  gossip  about  James's 
savings  and  salary,  had  encouraged  his  atten 
tions.  He  pressed  her  to  marry  him.  But 
young  Nicholas  Stuyvesant  came  home  from 
abroad  to  find  his  mother  ill  and  Clarice  nurs 
ing  her.  Every  day  he  noticed  the  modest 
rosy  maid  moving  noiselessly  about  like  a  sun 
beam.  Her  physical  perfection  profoundly 
impressed  him.  In  her  presence  he  constantly 
talked  to  his  mother  about  his  admiration  for 
healthy  women.  Each  evening  Clarice  re 
ported  to  him  the  condition  of  the  mother, 


110  PEOPLE    WE    PASS 

and  on  one  occasion  mentioned  that  she  had 
never  known  ache,  pain,  or  malady  in  her  life. 
The  young  man  often  chatted  with  her  in  the 
drawing -room,  and  James  the  butler  got  his 
conge.  Mr.  Stuyvesant  induced  his  mother  to 
make  Clarice  her  companion,  and  then  he  met 
her  at  picture  exhibitions,  and  in  Central  Park 
by  chance,  and  next — every  one  will  recall  the 
exciting  scene  —  he  paid  passionate  court  to 
her  "  in  the  pink  sewing-room,  where  she  half 
reclined  on  soft  silken  sofa  pillows,  with  her 
tiny  slippers  upon  the  head  of  a  lion  whose 
skin  formed  a  rug  before  her."  Clarice  saw 
that  he  was  merely  amusing  himself  with 
her  and  repulsed  him.  When  the  widow 
recovered  her  health  and  went  to  Newport, 
the  former  maid  met  all  society  there.  A 
gifted  lawyer  fell  a  victim  to  Clarice's 
charms,  and,  on  a  moonlit  porch  overlook 
ing  the  sea,  warned  her  against  young  Stuy 
vesant.  On  learning  that  the  roue  had  already 
made  an  attempt  to  weaken  the  girl's  high 
principles,  he  determined  to  rescue  her.  Sym 
pathy  for  her  developed  into  love,  and  he  made 
her  his  wife.  He  was  soon  afterwards  elected 


CORDELIA'S  NIGHT  OF  ROMANCE         m 

Mayor  of  New  York,  but  remained  a  suitor  for 
his  beautiful  wife's  approbation,  waiting  upon 
her  in  gilded  halls  with  the  fidelity  of  a  knight 
of  old. 

Cordelia  adored  Clarice  and  fancied  herself 
just  such  another — beautiful,  ambitions,  poor, 
with  a  future  for  her  own  carving.  Of  course 
such  a  case  is  phenomenal.  No  other  young 
woman  was  ever  so  ridiculous. 

"  You  have  on  your  besht  dresh,  Cordalia," 
said  her  mother.  "  It  '11  soon  be  wore  out,  an' 
ye'll  git  no  other,  wid  your  father  oidle,  an' 
no  one  airnin'  a  pinny  but  you  an'  Johnny  an7 
Sarah  Rosabel.  Fwliere  are  ye  goin'  ?" 

"  I  won't  be  gone  long,"  said  Cordelia,  half 
out  of  the  hall  door. 

"Cordalia  Angeline,  darlin',"  said  her  moth 
er,  "  mind,  now,  doan't  let  them  be  talkin' 
about  ye,  f  wherever  ye  go — shakin'  yer  shkirts 
an'  rollin'  yer  eyes.  It  doan't  luk  well  for  a 
gyuii  to  be  makin'  hersel'  attractive." 

"  Oh,  mother,  I'm  not  attractive,  and  you 
know  it." 

With  her  head  full  of  meeting  Jerry  Dona 
hue,  Cordelia  tripped  down  the  four  flights 


112  PEOPLE    WE    PASS 

of  stairs  to  the  street  door.  As  Clarice,  she 
thought  of  Jerry  as  James  the  butler ;  in  fact, 
all  the  beaux  she  had  had  of  late  were  so  many 
repetitions  of  the  unfortunate  James  in  her 
mind.  All  the  other  characters  in  her  ac 
quaintance  were  made  to  fit  more  or  less  loose 
ly  into  her  romance  life,  and  she  thought  of 
everything  she  did  as  if  it  all  happened  in 
Lulu  Jane  Tilley's  beautiful  novel.  Let  the 
reader  fancy,  if  possible,  what  a  feat  that  must 
have  been  for  a  tenement  girl  who  had  never 
known  what  it  was  to  have  a  parlor,  in  our 
sense  of  the  word,  who  had  never  known  court 
ship  to  be  carried  on  in-doors,  except  in  a  ten 
ement  hallway,  and  who  had  to  imagine  that 
the  sidewalk  flirtations  of  actual  life  were 
meetings  in  private  parks,  that  the  wharves 
and  public  squares  and  tenement  roofs  where 
she  had  seen  all  the  young  men  and  women 
making  love  were  heavily  carpeted  drawing- 
rooms,  broad  manor-house  verandas,  and  the 
fragrant  conservatories  of  luxurious  mansions ! 
But  Cordelia  managed  all  this  mental  necro 
mancy  easily,  to  her  own  satisfaction.  And 
now  she  was  tripping  down  the  bare  wooden 


CORDELIA'S  NIGHT  OF  ROMANCE          113 

stairs  beside  the  dark  greasy  wall,  and  think 
ing  of  her  future  husband,  the  rich  Mayor, 
who  must  be  either  the  bachelor  police  cap 
tain  of  the  precinct,  or  George  Fletcher,  the 
wealthy  and  unmarried  factory-owner  near  by, 
or,  perhaps,  Senator  Eisenstone,  the  district 
leader,  who,  she  was  forced  to  reflect,  was  an 
unlikely  hero  for  a  Catholic  girl,  since  he  was 
a  Hebrew.  But  just  as  she  reached  the  street 
door  and  decided  that  Jerry  would  do  well 
enough  as  a  mere  temporary  James  the  butler, 
and  while  Jerry  was  waiting  for  her  on  the 
corner,  she  stepped  from  the  stoop  directly  in 
front  of  George  Fletcher. 

"  Good  -evening,"  said  the  wealthy  young 
employer. 

"Good-evening,  Mr.  Fletcher." 

"  It's  very  embarrassing,"  said  Mr.  Fletch 
er;  "I  know  your  given  name — Cordelia,  isn't 
it  ? — but  your  last  na —  Oh,  thank  you — Miss 
Mahoney,  of  course.  You  know  we  met  at 
that  very  queer  wedding  in  the  home  of  my 
little  apprentice,  Joe— the  line-man's  wedding, 
you  know." 

"  Te  he !"  Cordelia  giggled.     "  Wasn't  that 


114  PEOPLE    WE    PASS 

a  terrible  strange  wedding?  I  think  it  was 
just  terrible." 

"  "Were  you  going  somewhere  ?" 

"  Oh,  not  at  all,  Mr.  Fletcher,"  with  anoth 
er  nervous  giggle  or  two.  "  I  have  no  plans 
on  me  mind,  only  to  get  out-of-doors.  It's 
terrible  hot,  ain't  it?" 

"  May  I  take  a  walk  with  you.  Miss  Maho 
ney?" 

It  seemed  to  her  that  if  he  had  called  her 
Clarice  the  whole  novel  would  have  come  true 
then  and  there. 

"I  can't  be  out  very  late,  Mr.  Fletcher," 
said  she,  with  a  giggle  of  delight. 

"  Are  you  sure  I  am  not  disarranging  your 
plans?  Had  you  no  engagements?" 

"  Oh  no,"  said  she ;  "  I  was  only  going  out 
with  me  lonely." 

"  Let  us  take  just  a  short  walk,  then,"  said 
Fletcher;  "only  you  must  be  the  man  and 
take  me  in  charge,  Miss  Mahoney,  for  I  nev 
er  walked  with  a  young  lady  in  my  life." 

"  Oh,  certainly  not ;  you  never  did — I  don't 
think." 

"  Upon  my  honor,  Miss  Mahoney,  I  know 


COKDELIA'S  NIGHT  OP  ROMANCE          115 

only  one  woman  in  this  city — Miss  Whitfield, 
the  doctor's  daughter,  who  lives  in  the  same 
house  with  you;  and  only  one  other  in  the 
world — my  aunt,  who  brought  me  up,  in  Ver 
mont." 

Well  indeed  did  Cordelia  know  this.  All 
the  neighborhood  knew  it,  and  most  of  the 
other  girls  were  conscious  of  a  little  flutter  in 
their  breasts  when  his  eyes  fell  upon  them  in 
the  streets,  for  it  was  the  gossip  of  all  who 
knew  his  workmen  that  the  prosperous  ladder- 
builder  lived  in  his  factory,  where  he  had 
spent  the  life  of  a  monk,  without  any  society 
except  of  his  canaries,  his  books,  and  his  work 
men. 

"Well,  I  declare!"  sighed  Cordelia.  "How 
terrible  cunning  you  men  are,  to  get  up  such 
a  story  to  make  all  the  girls  think  you're  ro 
mantic  !" 

But,  oh,  how  happy  Cordelia  was !  At  last 
she  had  met  her  prince — the  future  Mayor — 
her  Sultan  of  the  gilded  halls.  In  that  humid, 
sticky,  midsummer  heat  among  the  tenements, 
every  other  woman  dragged  along  as  if  she 
weighed  a  thousand  pounds,  but  Cordelia  felt 


116  PEOPLE    WE    PASS 

like  a  feather  floating  among  clouds.  The 
babel  —  did  the  reader  ever  walk  up  Forsyth 
Street  on  a  hot  night,  into  Second  Avenue, 
and  across  to  Avenue  A,  and  up  to  Tompkins 
Park?  The  noise  of  the  tens  of  thousands  on 
the  pavements  makes  a  babel  that  drowns  the 
racket  of  the  carts  and  cars.  The  talking  of 
so  many  persons,  the  squalling  of  so  many  ba 
bies,  the  mothers  scolding  and  slapping  every 
third  child,  the  yelling  of  the  children  at  play, 
the  shouts  and  loud  repartee  of  the  men  and 
women — all  these  noises  rolled  together  in  the 
air  make  a  steady  hum  and  roar  that  not  even 
the  breakers  on  a  hard  sea-beach  can  equal.  You 
might  say  that  the  tenements  were  empty,  as 
only  the  very  sick,  who  could  not  move,  were 
in  them.  For  miles  and  miles  they  were  bare 
of  humanity,  each  flat  unguarded  and  un 
locked,  with  the  women  on  the  sidewalks,  with 
the  youngest  children  in  arms  or  in  perambu 
lators,  while  those  of  the  next  sizes  romped  in 
the  streets ;  with  the  girls  and  boys  of  four 
teen  giggling  in  groups  in  the  doorways  (the 
age  and  places  where  sex  first  asserts  itself), 
and  only  the  young  men  and  women  missing ; 


THE    STROLL 


CORDELIA'S  NIGHT  OF  ROMANCE          147 

for  they  were  in  the  parks,  on  the  wharves, 
and  on  the  roofs,  all  frolicking  and  love-mak 
ing.  And  every  house  front  was  like  a  Rus 
sian  stove,  expending  the  heat  it  had  sacked 
from  the  all -day  sun.  Arid  every  door  and 
window  breathed  bad  air — air  without  oxygen, 
rich  and  rank  and  stifling. 

But  Cordelia  was  Clarice,  the  future  May 
oress.  She  did  not  know  she  was  picking  a 
tiresome  way  around  the  boys  at  leap-frog,  and 
the  mothers  and  babies  and  baby  -  carriages. 
She  did  not  notice  the  smells,  or  feel  the 
bumps  she  got  from  those  who  ran  against  her. 
She  thought  she  was  in  the  blue  drawing-room 
at  Newport,  where  a  famous  Hungarian  count 
was  thrilling  the  soft  prelude  to  a  csdrdds  on 
the  piano,  and  Mr.  Stuyvesant  had  just  intro 
duced  her  to  the  future  Mayor,  who  was  spell 
bound  by  her  charms,  and  was  by  her  side,  a 
captive.  She  reached  out  her  hand,  and  it 
touched  Mr.  Fletcher's  arm  (just  as  a  raga 
muffin  propelled  himself  head  first  against 
her),  and  Mr.  Fletcher  bent  his  elbow,  and 
her  wrist  rested  in  the  crook  of  his  arm.  Oh, 
her  dream  was  true ;  her  dream  was  true ! 


118  PEOPLE    WE    PASS 

Mr.  Fletcher,  on  the  other  hand,  was  hardly 
in  a  more  natural  relation.  He  was  trying  to 
think  how  the  men  talked  to  women  in  all  the 
literature  he  had  read.  The  myriad  jokes 
about  the  fondness  of  girls  for  ice-cream  re 
curred  to  him,  and  he  risked  everything  on 
their  fidelity  to  fact. 

"Are  you  fond  of  ice-cream  ?"  he  inquired. 

"  Oh  no ;  I  don't  think,"  said  Cordelia. 
"What'll  you  ask  next?  What  girl  ain't 
crushed  on  ice-cream,  I'd  like  to  know  ?" 

"  Do  you  know  of  a  nice  place  to  get  some  ?" 

"  Do  I  ?  The  Dutchman's,  on  the  av'noo, 
another  block  up,  is  the  finest  in  the  city.  You 
get  mo — that  is,  you  get  everything  'way  up 
in  G  there,  with  cakes  on  the  side,  and  it  don't 
cost  no  more  than  anywheres  else." 

So  to  the  German's  they  went,  and  Cordelia 
fancied  herself  at  the  Casino  in  Newport.  All 
the  girls  around  her,  who  seemed  to  be  trying 
to  swallow  the  spoons,  took  on  the  guise  of 
blue-blooded  belles,  while  the  noisy  boys  and 
young  men  (calling  out,  "  Hully  gee,  fellers  ! 
look  at  Nifty  gittin'  out  der  winder  widout 
payin' !"  and,  "  Say,  Tilly,  what  kind  er  cream 


CORDELIA'S  NIGHT  OF  BOMANCE          119 

is  dat  you're  feedin'  your  face  wid  ?")  seemed 
to  her  so  many  millionaires  and  the  exquisite 
sons  thereof.  To  Mr.  Fletcher  the  German's 
back -yard  saloon,  with  its  green  lattice  walls, 
and  its  rusty  dead  Christmas  trees  in  painted 
butter -kegs,  appeared  uncommonly  brilliant 
and  fine.  The  fact  that  whenever  he  took  a 
swallow  of  water  the  ice-cream  turned  to  cold 
candle  -  grease  in  his  mouth  made  no  differ 
ence.  He  was  happy,  and  Cordelia  was  in  an 
ecstasy  by  the  time  he  had  paid  a  shock-head 
ed,  bare-armed  German  waiter,  and  they  were 
again  on  the  avenue  side  by  side.  She  put 
out  her  hand  and  rested  it  on  his  arm  again — 
to  make  sure  she  was  Clarice. 

One  would  like  to  know  whether,  in  the 
breasts  of  such  as  these,  familiar  environment 
exerts  any  remarkable  influence.  If  so,  it 
could  have  been  in  but  one  direction.  For 
that  part  of  town  was  one  vast  nursery.  Ev 
erywhere,  on  every  side,  were  the  swarming 
babies  —  a  baby  for  every  flag -stone  in  the 
pavements.  Babies  and  babies,  and  little  be 
sides  babies,  except  larger  children  and  the 
mothers.  Perambulators  with  two,  even  three, 


120  PEOPLE    WE    PASS 

baby  passengers  ;  mothers  with  as  many  as 
five  children  trailing  after  them  ;  babies  in 
broad  baggy  laps,  babies  at  the  breast,  babies 
creeping,  toppling,  screaming,  overflowing  into 
the  gutters.  Such  was  the  unbroken  scene 
from  the  Big  Barracks  to  Tompkins  Square ; 
aye,  to  Harlem  and  to  the  East  River,  and  al 
most  to  Broadway.  In  the  park,  as  if  the 
street  scenes  had  been  merely  preliminary,  the 
paths  were  alive,  wriggling,  with  babies  of 
every  age,  from  the  new-born  to  the  children 
in  pigtails  and  knickerbockers — and,  lo  !  these 
were  already  paired  and  practising  at  court 
ship.  The  walk  that  Cordelia  was  taking  was 
amid  a  fever,  a  delirium,  of  maternity — a  rhap 
sody,  a  baby's  opera,  if  one  considered  its  noise. 
In  that  vast  region  no  one  inquired  whether 
marriage  was  a  failure.  Nothing  that  is  old 
and  long-beloved  and  human  is  a  failure  there. 
In  Tompkins  Park,  while  they  dodged  ba 
bies  and  stepped  around  babies  and  over  them, 
they  saw  many  happy  couples  on  the  settees, 
and  they  noticed  that  often  the  men  held  their 
arms  around  the  waists  of  their  sweethearts. 
Girls,  too,  in  other  instances,  leaned  loving 


CORDELIA'S  NIGHT  OF  ROMANCE          121 

heads  against  the  young  men's  breasts,  bliss 
fully  regardless  of  publicity.  They  passed  a 
young  man  and  woman  kissing  passionately, 
as  kissing  is  described  by  unmarried  girl  nov 
elists.  Cordelia  thought  it  no  harm  to  nudge 
Mr.  Fletcher  and  whisper  : 

"  Sakes  alive !  They're  right  in  it,  ain't  they  ? 
c  It's  funny  when  you  feel  that  way,'  ain't 
it?" 

As  many  another  man  who  does  not  know 
the  frankness  and  simplicity  of  the  plain  peo 
ple  might  have  done,  Mr.  Fletcher  misjudged 
the  girl.  He  thought  her  the  sort  of  girl  he 
was  far  from  seeking.  He  grew  instantly  cold 
and  reserved,  and  she  knew,  vaguely,  that  she 
had  displeased  him. 

"  I  think  people  who  make  love  in  public 
should  be  locked  up,"  said  he. 

"  Some  folks  wants  everybody  put  away  that 
enjoys  themselves,"  said  Cordelia.  Then,  lest 
she  had  spoken  too  strongly,  she  added,  "  Pres 
ent  company  not  intended,  Mr.  Fletcher;  but 
you  said  that  like  them  mission  folks  that 
come  around  praising  themselves  and  tellin' 
us  all  we're  wicked." 


122  PEOPLE    WE    PASS 

"And  do  you  think  a  girl  can  be  good  who 
behaves  so  in  public  ?" 

"  I  know  plenty  that's  done  it,"  said  she ; 
"  and  I  don't  know  any  girls  but  what's  good. 
They  'ain't  got  wings,  maybe,  but  you  don't 
want  to  monkey  with  'em,  neither." 

He  recollected  her  words  for  many  a  year 
afterwards  and  pondered  them,  and  perhaps 
they  enlarged  his  understanding.  She  also 
often  thought  of  his  condemnation  of  love- 
making  out-of-doors.  Kissing  in  public,  es 
pecially  promiscuous  kissing,  she  knew  to  be 
a  debatable  pastime,  but  she  also  knew  that 
there  was  not  a  flat  in  the  Big  Barracks  in 
which  a  girl  could  carry  on  a  courtship.  Fan 
cy  her  attempting  it  in  her  front  room,  with 
the  room  choked  with  people,  with  the  baby 
squalling,  and  her  little  brothers  and  sisters 
quarrelling,  with  her  mother  entertaining  half 
a  dozen  women  visitors  with  tea  or  beer,  and 
with  a  man  or  two  dropping  in  to  smoke  with 
her  father !  Parlor  courtship  was  to  her,  like 
precise  English,  a  thing  only  known  in  novels. 
The  thought  of  novels  floated  her  soul  back 
into  the  dream  state. 


CORDELIA'S  NIGHT  OF  ROMANCE          123 

"I  think  Cordelia's  a  pretty  name,"  said 
Fletcher,  cold  at  heart  but  struggling  to  be 
companionable. 

"I  don't,"  said  Cordelia.  "I'm  not  at  all 
crushed  on  it.  Your  name's  terrible  pretty. 
I  think  my  three  names  looks  like  a  map  of 
Ireland  when  they're  written  down.  I  know 
a  killin'  name  for  a  girl.  It's  Clarice.  Maybe 
some  day  I'll  give  you  a  dare.  I'll  double  dare 
you,  maybe,  to  call  me  Clarice." 

Oh,  if  he  only  would,  she  thought  —  if  he 
would  only  call  her  so  now !  But  she  forgot 
how  unelastic  his  strange  routine  of  life  must 
have  left  him,  and  she  did  not  dream  how  her 
behavior  in  the  park  had  displeased  him. 

"  Cordelia  is  a  pretty  name,"  he  repeated. 
"  At  any  rate,  I  think  we  should  try  to  make 
the  most  and  best  of  whatever  name  has  come 
to  us.  I  wouldn't  sail  under  false  colors  for  a 
minute." 

"  Oh !"  said  she,  with  a  giggle  to  hide  her 
disappointment ;  "  you're  so  terrible  wise  ! 
When  you  talk  them  big  words  you  can  pass 
me  in  a  walk." 

Anxious  to  display  her  great  conquest  to 


124  PEOPLE    WE    PASS 

the  other  girls  of  the  Barracks  neighborhood, 
Cordelia  persuaded  Mr.  Fletcher  to  go  to  what 
she  called  "  the  dock,"  to  enjoy  the  cool  breath 
of  the  river.  All  the  piers  and  wharves  are 
called  "  docks  "  by  the  people.  Those  which 
are  semi-public  and  are  rented  to  miscellane 
ous  excursion  and  river  steamers  are  crowded 
nightly. 

The  wharf  to  which  our  couple  strolled  was 
a  mere  flooring  above  the  water,  edged  with  a 
stout  string  -  piece,  which  formed  a  bench  for 
the  mothers.  They  were  there  in  groups,  some 
seated  on  the  string-piece  with  babes  in  arms  or 
with  perambulators  before  them,  and  others, 
facing  these,  standing  and  joining  in  the  gos 
sip,  and  swaying  to  and  fro  to  soothe  their  lit 
tle  ones.  Those  who  gave  their  offspring  the 
breast  did  so  publicly,  unembarrassed  by  a 
modesty  they  would  have  considered  false. 
A  few  youthful  couples,  boy  by  girl  and  girl 
by  boy,  sat  on  the  string-piece  and  whispered, 
or  bandied  fun  with  those  other  lovers  who 
patrolled  the  flooring  of  the  wharf.  A  u  gang  " 
of  rude  young  men — toughs — walked  up  and 
down,  teasing  the  girls,  wrestling,  scuffling, 


CORDELIA'S  NIGHT  OF  ROMANCE          125 

and  roaring  out  bad  language.  Troops  of 
children  played  at  leap-frog,  high-spy,  jack- 
stones,  bean-bag,  hop-scotch,  and  tag.  At  the 
far  end  of  the  pier  some  young  men  and  wom 
en  waltzed,  while  a  lad  on  the  string -piece 
played  for  them  on  his  mouth-organ.  A  steady, 
cool,  vivifying  breeze  from  the  bay  swept  across 
the  wharf  and  fanned  all  the  idlers,  and  blew 
out  of  their  heads  almost  all  recollection  of 
the  furnacelike  heat  of  the  town. 

Cordelia  forgot  her  desire  to  display  her 
conquest.  She  forgot  her  true  self.  She  lik 
ened  the  wharf  to  that  "  lordly  veranda  over 
looking  the  sea,"  where  the  future  Mayor 
begged  Clarice  to  be  his  bride.  She  knew  just 
what  she  would  say  when  her  prince  spoke 
his  lines.  She  and  Mr.  Fletcher  were  just  about 
to  seat  themselves  on  the  great  rim  of  the 
wharf,  when  an  uproar  of  the  harsh,  froglike 
voices  of  half-grown  men  caused  them  to  turn 
around.  They  saw  Jerry  Donahue  striding  tow 
ards  them,  but  with  difficulty,  because  half  a 
dozen  lads  and  youths  were  endeavoring  to 
hold  him  back. 

"  Dat's  Mr.  Fletcher,"  they  said.     "  It  ain't 


126  PEOPLE    WE   PASS 

his  fault,  Jerry.  He's  dead  square ;  he's  a 
gent,  Jerry." 

The  politician's  gilly  tore  himself  away 
from  his  friends.  The  gang  of  toughs  gath 
ered  behind  the  others.  Jerry  planted  him 
self  in  front  of  Cordelia.  Evidently  he  did 
not  know  the  submissive  part  he  should  have 
played  in  Cordelia's  romance.  James  the  but 
ler  made  no  outbreak,  but  here  was  Jerry  an 
gry  through  and  through. 

k'  You  didn't  keep  de  date  wid  me,"  he  be 
gan. 

"Oh,  Jerry,  I  did— I  tried  to,  but  you—" 
Cordelia  was  rose  red  with  shame. 

"  The  hell  you  did  !    Wasn't  I—" 

"  Here  !"  said  Mr.  Fletcher  ;  "  you  can't 
swear  at  this  lady." 

"  Why  wouldn't  I  ?"  Jerry  asked.  "  What 
would  you  do  ?" 

"  He's  right,  Jerry.  Leave  him  be — see  ?" 
said  the  chorus  of  Jerry's  friends. 

"  A-a-a-h  !"  snarled  Jerry.  "  Let  him  leave 
me  be,  then.  Cordelia,  I  heard  you  was  a 
dead  fraud,  an'  now  I  know  it,  and  I'm  a-tellin' 
you  so,  straight  —  see?  I  was  a-waitin'  'cross 


"  HKRE    WAS    JERRY  " 


CORDELIA'S  NIGHT  OF  EOMANCE          137 

der  street,  an'  I  seen  you  come  out  an'  meet 
dis  mug,  an'  you  never  turned  yer  head  to  see 
was  I  on  me  post.  I  seen  dat,  an'  I'm  a-tellin' 
yer  friend  just  der  kind  of  a  racket  you  give 
me,  der  same's  you've  give  a  hundred  other 
fellers.  Den,  if  he  likes  it  he  knows  what 
he's  gittin'." 

Jerry  was  so  angry  that  he  all  but  pushed 
his  distorted  face  against  that  of  the  humili 
ated  girl  as  he  denounced  her.  Mr.  Fletcher 
gently  moved  her  backward  a  step  or  two,  and 
advanced  to  where  she  had  stood. 

"  That  will  do,"  he  said  to  Jerry.  "  I  want 
no  trouble,  but  you've  said  enough.  If  there's 
more,  say  it  to  me." 

"A-a-a-h!"  exclaimed  the  gilly,  expecto 
rating  theatrically  over  one  shoulder.  "  Me 
friends  is  on  your  side,  an'  I  ain't  pickin'  no 
muss  wid  you.  But  she's  got  der  front  of  der 
City  Hall  to  do  me  like  she's  done.  And  say, 
fellers,  den  she  was  goin'  ter  give  me  a  song 
an'  dance  'bout  lookin'  ferme.  Ba-a-a!  She 
knows  my  'pinion  of  her — see  ?" 

The  crowd  parted  to  let  Mr.  Fletcher  finish 
his  first  evening's  gallantry  to  a  lady  by  escort- 


128  PEOPLE    WE    PASS 

ing  Cordelia  to  her  home.  It  was  a  chilly  and 
mainly  a  silent  journey.  Cordelia  falteringly 
apologized  for  Jerry's  misbehavior,  but  she 
inferred  from  what  Mr.  Fletcher  said  that  he 
did  not  fully  join  her  in  blaming  the  angry 
youth.  Mr.  Fletcher  touched  her  finger-tips 
in  bidding  her  good-night,  and  nothing  was 
said  of  a  meeting  in  the  future.  Clarice  was 
forgotten,  and  Cordelia  was  not  only  herself 
again,  but  quite  a  miserable  self,  for  her  sobs 
awoke  the  little  brother  and  sister  who  shared 
her  bed. 


DUTCH 

KITTY'S       y 


JH$L9'  ^ 


WHITE 


fliwsL 


IPPERS 


' 


DUTCH  KITTY'S  WHITE  SLIPPERS 

KITTY  WINDHURST'S  white  slippers  lay  side 
by  side  on  the  roof  of  the  Big  Barracks  tene 
ment.  They  were  what  we  would  call  her 
ball  slippers.  One  could  not  look  at  them 
without  feeling  their  story,  as  one  often  feels 
the  tragedies  and  romances  of  inanimate 
things  which  have  endured  or  enjoyed,  and 
yet  cannot  voice  their  sensations.  The  reader, 
with  his  power  to  buy  new  things  whenever 
new  are  needed,  would  say  that  the  story  of 
these  slippers  was  a  tale  that  was  told  and 
ended,  for  they  were  discolored  half-way  up 
the  sides  and  over  the  toes  with  greasy  black 
New  York  mud,  and  they  were  badly  run 
down  at  the  heels.  The  reader  would  say 
that  they  had  given  some  girl  a  good  time 
and  had  served  their  limit  of  usefulness,  and 
ought  to  go  to  one  of  the  eight  sorts  of  men 
and  women  who  fish  in  the  ash-barrels  for  a 


132  PEOPLE    WE    PASS 

living — the  eight  sorts  who  search  the  barrels 
for  metal,  for  bone,  for  rags,  for  glass,  for 
shoes,  for  coal,  for  paper,  and  for  food.  And 
that  was  true ;  at  least  it  is  true  that  they  had 
given  Kitty  a  good  time,  and  it  ought  to  be 
true  that  the  days  of  their  usefulness  were 
over. 

Kitty  had  bought  them  by  saving  a  whole 
week's  allowance  for  luncheons  and  car  rides 
and  pin-money,  by  going  without  her  mid-day 
apple  or  sandwich  for  seven  days,  by  walk 
ing  miles  and  miles  after  being  on  her  feet 
nearly  eleven  hours  each  day  in  the  china- 
ware  department  of  an  uptown  shop.  And 
then  she  had  got  them  at  a  bargain,  for  eighty- 
seven  cents.  They  were  bought  to  dance  in  at 
the  annual  target -shoot  of  the  big  society  of 
immigrants  from  the  Rhenish  Palatinate  to 
which  Kitty's  mother  and  father  belonged, 
the  shoot  when  the  best  marksman  and  marks- 
woman  became  king  and  queen,  every  autumn 
at  the  time  when,  in  the  father-land,  the  new 
wine  and  the  sausages  reappear  together. 
There  the  slippers  had  first  danced  with  Lewy 
Tusch,  and  had  danced  Kitty  into  his  heart, 


DUTCH  KITTY'S  WHITE  SLIPPERS          183 

so  that  he  was  crazy  about  her,  and  had  long 
been  on  the  point  of  asking  her  to  marry  him. 
The  slippers  were  certain  that  they  had  done 
this,  and  would  grant  none  of  the  credit  to  Kit 
ty's  winning  nature  or  her  trim  little  ankles 
or  her  pretty  face,  or  to  her  genius  for  mak 
ing  any  sort  of  slippers  dance  like  shoes  be 
witched.  And,  since  then,  the  slippers  had 
danced  up  the  Hudson  to  lona  Island  on 
the  Pinochle  Club  excursion,  and  up  the  East 
River  and  the  Sound  on  another  excursion, 
and  they  had  danced  in  Lion  Park  and  Jones's 
Wood  and  the  155th  Street  Casino  and  Wal- 
halla  Hall  and  Tammany  Hall,  and  I  don't 
know  where  they  had  not  danced,  all  in  eleven 
months.  This  was  not  extraordinary.  The 
young  men  and  girls  of  the  neighborhood — 
especially  the  German -Americans — had  at 
tended  most  of  these  dances,  and  there  was 
scarcely  a  young  fellow  mentioned  in  these 
stories  that  these  slippers  had  not  danced  with, 
but  only  one  had  ever  taken  one  of  them  in 
his  big  hand  and  squeezed  it  on  Kitty's  foot 
— once,  when  it  fell  off.  That  was  Lewy 
Tusch,  whom  they  loved  because  he  loved 


134  PEOPLE    WE    PASS 

Kitty,  and  who,  we  shall  have  reason  to  think 
by  what  he  did  with  them  at  the  end,  must 
have  loved  them  in  return. 

But  why  were  they  up  there  on  the  roof? 
Were  they  to  be  left  there,  to  rot  in  the  rain 
and  sun  ?  "Wait !  The  door  of  the  stairway 
shed  opens.  A  little  brown  curly  head  comes 
out  on  a  level  with  the  nob,  two  beadlike 
black  eyes  follow,  then  a  very  shapely  little 
nose,  a  generous,  red -lipped,  kissable  mouth, 
a  dimpled  chin,  a  sturdy  little  brown  neck,  a 
shapely  bust  and  waist  —  and  all  the  rest  of 
Kitty,  in  a  shabby  house  dress,  to  be  sure,  yet 
looking  very  comely  and  pert  and  graceful. 
In  one  hand  she  carries  a  small  bottle  of  white 
paint  and  a  little  paint-brush  —  both  got  in 
tenement  fashion  —  the  brush  rented,  and  the 
paint  bought  for  three  "  pennies."  She  lays 
them  down,  closes  the  shed  door,  and  looks 
around  her.  No  one,  nothing,  except  herself 
and  her  belongings,  is  on  the  roof.  Across 
the  street,  on  another  tenement -top,  some 
women  are  hanging  up  wet  clothes.  On  the 
very  next  tall  tenement-house  down  the  street 
a  young  man  is  chasing  a  young  girl  and  kiss- 


DUTCH  KITTY'S  WHITE  SLIPPERS          135 

ing  her  when  he  catches  her.  In  the  other 
direction  a  mother  croons  over  a  baby  in  her 
lap  in  the  shade  of  a  stairway  shed ;  and  at 
one  side,  in  the  top  story  of  a  sort  of  factory 
building,  some  printers  are  setting  type  by 
the  windows.  She  therefore  considers  herself 
alone.  She  is  more  nearly  alone,  perhaps, 
than  she  ever  was  except  during  very  short 
periods  in  her  bedroom — she  who  can  scarcely 
conceive  what  the  word  "alone"  really  means. 
So  she  begins  to  dance. 

There  is  an  endless  dispute  in  the  Big  Bar 
racks  as  to  whether  Kitty  is  a  "spieler"  or 
not.  Some  of  the  younger  married  women — 
not  yet  wholly  content  in  the  new  monotony 
of  childbearing  and  childrearing,  and  conse 
quently  a  trifle  jealous  of  Kitty — call  her  a 
"  spieler "  because  she  is  forever  dancing. 
The  young  men,  with  whom  she  is  a  general 
favorite,  take  up  the  cudgels  of  argument  for 
her.  They  say,  truly,  that  a  spieler  is  a  vaga 
bond  girl  who  does  no  work  at  home  or  for 
her  living,  but  goes  to  dances  by  night  arid 
day,  the  year  around,  with  any  man  who  will 
pay  the  way.  Kitty,  they  say,  is  a  decent, 


136  PEOPLE   WE    PASS 

bard-working  girl,  who  is  very  fond  of  dan 
cing,  that's  all.  Then  the  young  married  wom 
en —  silencing  all  recollection  of  their  own 
past  —  retort  that  Kitty  dances  in  the  hall 
ways  on  her  way  to  the  street ;  that  when 
she  is  ironing  she  dances  from  the  table  to 
the  stove  to  change  her  irons;  that  when  she 
pins  up  wet  clothes  to  dry  on  her  mother's 
pulley-line  she  dances  from  the  basket  to  the 
window ;  and  that  once,  when  a  piece  fell  off 
the  line  into  the  back  court,  she  was  seen  to 
dance  out  and  pick  it  up,  and  dance  back  into 
the  house  with  it.  And  if  that  does  not  prove 
that  she  is  a  spieler,  what  does  it  prove,  these 
young  wives  would  like  to  know  ? 

As  Kitty  dances — one  —  two  —  three,  waltz 
measure,  right  foot  out  with  a  graceful  kick ; 
one  —  two  —  three,  right  about  face,  left  foot 
out  with  a  little  kick  —  a  tune  springs  from 
her  throat,  and  she  sings  to  time  her  foot 
steps.  Around  and  around  on  the  roof  she 
whirls  —  this  way,  and  a  kick,  then  that  way, 
and  another  kick  —  for  perhaps  five  minutes, 
lost  to  every  sense  except  that  of  enjoyment 
of  her  graceful,  agile  movements.  At  last  she 


137 

dances  up  to  the  paint  bottle  and  brush,  and 
dances  with  them  over  to  her  slippers,  beside 
which  she  bends  down  upon  one  knee.  As 
she  paints  the  first  slipper  freshly  white  all 
over  she  thinks,  almost  aloud. 

She  thinks  what  best  of  all  fun  dancing  is, 
and  how  strange  and  unheard-of  a  thing  Lewy 
Tusch  is  doing  in  assuming  the  right  to  criti 
cise  her  because  she  likes  to  dance  a  little  bet 
ter  than  he  does  himself — she,  who  has  no 
other  fun,  and  nothing  else  but  hard  work. 
Lewy  has  been  worked  upon  by  the  minister 
at  the  Lutheran  mission,  and  has  become  a 
trifle  religious — a  mere  phase,  she  thinks,  that 
must  soon  pass  away.  She  has  been  to  the 
mission  with  him — once  too  often,  in  her  opin 
ion,  since  the  "terrible"  mission  minister  cor 
nered  her  the  last  time  and  lectured  her  about 
her  passion  for  dancing.  Her  passion  for  dan 
cing?  Why  was  it  Tier  passion  any  more  than 
her  mother's,  or  her  grandmother's  ?  For  love 
of  dancing  was  thick  in  her  blood. 

Kitty  was  a  natural-born  dancer.  She  would 
enjoy  dancing  with  girls  as  much  as  with  men. 
She  was  of  the  blood  and  temperament  of 


138  PEOPLE    WE    PASS 

those  unquestionably  innocent  little  children 
that  we  see,  scarcely  beyond  babyhood,  dan 
cing  on  the  pavement  to  the  organ-grinder's 
tunes.  She  had  been  one  of  those  children. 
Perhaps  a  thousand  times — perhaps  not  quite 
so  often — the  strains  of  the  barrel-organs  had 
called  her  forth  to  dance  on  the  sidewalk, 
partly  because  there  was  no  room  in-doors  for 
dancing,  and  partly  because  everything  except 
working,  eating,  and  sleeping  must  be  done 
out-of-doors  in  that  most  populous  district  in 
America.  The  love  of  dancing  was  part  of 
her  apart  from  herself  (if  that  can  be  under 
stood),  apart  from  her  control.  When  a  dance 
tune  sounded  it  went  to  her  toes  instead  of 
her  ears,  and  set  them  tingling  until  they 
got  relief  in  dancing. 

It  is  worth  while  to  note  that  though  there 
is  little  of  privacy  in  a  tenement  girl's  routine, 
and  that  though  profanity  (and  some  speech 
that  is  worse)  may  often  load  the  air  around 
her,  she  may  yet  be  so  inoculated  with  self- 
respect  that  evil  will  pass  her  by,  unless  some 
one  drives  at  her  with  it,  and  makes  it  per 
sonal  to  her.  So  it  was  with  Kitty.  She  had 


DUTCH  KITTY'S  WHITE  SLIPPERS          139 

danced  as  much  as  any  working-girl  in  New 
York,  but  she  had  never  connected  evil  with 
herself  before  the  Lutheran  minister  had 
talked  to  her  at  the  mission. 

While  she  reflected  and  painted  she  heard  a 
step  behind  her.  She  turned  and  saw  Lewy 
Tusch,  the  journeyman  plumber  who  had 
been  very  constant  in  his  devotion  for  many 
months.  She  liked  him — more  than  that  she 
had  not  told  even  herself.  She  ran  to  him, 
laughing.  She  put  a  hand  on  his  shoulder 
and  a  little  arm  part  way  round  his  burly 
waist. 

"  Now,  Lewy,"  said  she,  "  let's  have  a 
waltz."  And  she  tried  to  move  him  around. 
But  he  would  not  dance. 

"  Naw,"  said  he  ;  "  I  der  want  ter." 

"  Oh,  come  on,"  said  she,  coaxing.  "  I'll 
tell  you  what.  I'll  teach  you  the  varsovien- 
na,  that  everybody's  dancing.  It's  too  kill 
ing  for  anything.  See,  now ;  you  stand  be 
hind  me  or  beside  me,  and  we  dance  so,  and 
then  that  brings  me  on  the  other  side,  to  your 
other  arm.  You  won't  ?  Then  I'll  dance  it 
by  meself."  Filling  the  air  with  a  blending 


140  PEOPLE    WE    PASS 

of  light  laughter  and  still  lighter  music,  she 
whirled  around  him  and  at  him,  and  away 
again. 

He  had  come  looking  very  serious.  She 
melted  him.  He  ran  and  caught  her,  and  put 
an  arm  around  her  to  lead  her  to  a  seat. 

"Come,"  said  he  —  "come  ant  sit  behint 
der  shet,  ant  we'll  talk  togetter." 

That  suited  her. 

"  Here  t'ey  can't  any  one  see  us,"  said  he, 
and  he  drew  her  to  him.  and  kissed  her.  She 
contributed  her  full  share  of  the  embrace,  and 
yet,  the  instant  he  released  her,  she  sprang 
from  him  and  pointed  a  finger  at  him,  and 
shouted,  laughing  between  her  words : 

"  Oh,  for  shame  !  Those  ladies  saw  you — 
over  there  on  the  roof  !  They  saw  you  ;  oh, 
shame  be  to  you  !" 

He  felt  obliged  to  leap  after  her  and  catch 
her  again,  and  force  her  to  sit  down  beside 
him.  He  did  not  try  to  kiss  her  again,  be 
cause  he  believed  the  washer-women  on  the 
other  roof  really  might  see  him. 

"  Kit,  what  about  ter  tance  up  at  Crim- 
mins's  Park  to-night  ?" 


DUTCH  KITTY'S  WHITE  SLIPPERS          141 

"  I'm  going,  Lewy." 

"  Say,  Kit,  what  makes  you  want  to  be  tan- 
cin'  all  ter  time,  wit'  all  ter  people  backcap- 
pin'  you  ant  sayin'  yer  gittin'  to  be  a  de't 
spieler  ?  No,  t'at  ain't  no  jolly ;  t'at's  straight ; 
I  hope  to  tie  if  it  ain't." 

"  Lewy,"  said  the  girl,  trying  to  look  grave 
through  her  superabundant  mirth,  "do  you 
know  anything  against  me  ?" 

"  Naw  ;  what's  ter  matter  wit'  you  ?  You 
know  I  ton't." 

u  Well,  then,  you  know  what  you'd  oughter 
do  if  people  talks  mean  about  me,  'stead  of 
comma-  to  me  with  the  talk.  I'm  ^oino;  to 

O  O  c3 

the  dance.  Mother  hain't  said  I  shouldn't, 
and  if  me  mother's  pleased,  others  has  got  to 
be.  Besides,  I'm  earning  me  own  living,  and 
I'm  big  enough  to  take  care  of  rneself.  I  don't 
believe  any  one's  sore  on  me  going  except  you 
and  your  old  mission  minister.  And  now, 
Lewy  Tusch,  I'll  just  tell  you  what  I  think  of 
him.  He  ain't  no  true  minister,  for  a  cent. 
Lewy  Tusch,  if  you  said  such  things  to  me 
like  lie  did,  I  wouldn't  leave  you  be  near  me." 
"  I  t'ink  he  tone  feat  wrong,  tacklin'  you 


142  PEOPLE    WE    PASS 

wit'out  you  bein'  in  tor  church.  But,  say, 
trop  ter  tance — see  ?  I  got  somet'ing  I  come 
up  to  say  t'  you.  I've  got  a  steaty  job,  wit' 
t'ree  hundert  tollars  in  ter  cooler — see?  Ant 
I  t'ink  ter  sun  on'y  shines  when  you're  arount; 
ant  say — " 

"  Oh,  g'way,  Lewy !  don't  be  talking  silly." 

"  Kit,  I'm  a-talkin'  ter  way  I  feel.  If  I 
ain't  in  it  wit'  yer,  you  kin  say  so." 

"  I  see  clean  through  you,  Lewy,"  said  she, 
laughing  merrily.  "  I  can  give  you  away  to 
yourself.  Will  you  go  with  me  to  the  pic 
nic  to-night?" 

"  Naw  ;  I  can't." 

"  You  won't — that's  what  you  mean." 

ISTo  answer. 

"  You  der  want  me  to  go,"  said  Kitty. 

"  I  tolt  yer.  Ter  hull  Barracks  is  talkin' 
'bout  yer  tancin'  ter  hull  time." 

"  See !"  cried  the  girl,  leaping  to  her  feet 
with  a  peal  of  laughter.  "  You  was  thinking 
if  you  could  get  engaged  to  me  you  could 
give  me  me  orders  to  stay  home.  Oh,  Lewy, 
ain't  you  terrible  deep?" 

Lewy  flushed  to  the  roots  of  his  hair.    She 


DUTCH  KITTY'S  WHITE  SLIPPERS          143 

had   laid   bare  his  simple  thoughts,  but   lie 
would  not  be  laughed  out  of  his  plan. 

"  Then,  for  Gord's  sakes,  Kit,  if  ter  feller 
t'at  likes  you  ter  best  der  want  you  to  go, 
what  makes  you  go  ?" 

"Because  I  'ain't  got  no  boss  except  rne 
mother,  and  I  der  want  none.  I  ain't  ready 
to  settle  down  yet.  I'm  t'  young.  Wait  till 
I  get  tired  first.  What's  come  over  you, 
Lewy  ?  'Ain't  I  danced  with  you  more  than 
any  feller  alive  ?  —  and  now  it's  suddenly 
wrong.  That's  what  it  is  makes  me  go. 
It  ain't  about  to-night.  It's  whether  I'm 
to  say  that  dancing  is  leading  me  wrong 
or  not.  '  Everybody's  talking,'  says  you. 
Well,  since  I've  got  the  name,  I'll  take  the 
game." 

"  Oh,  hoi'  on,  now,  Kit !" 

"  Well,  I  take  that  back.  But  I  never  seen 
any  more  out  of  the  way  at  a  dance  than  I've 
seen  in  me  own  home.  I  ain't  a-going  to  say 
I  did  when  I  didn't.  No  harm  '11  come  to  a 
girl  if  she  respects  herself,  and  if  she  don't  re 
spect  herself  she  ain't  safe  locked  up  in  her 
own  home.  I'm  promised  to  go  with  Rosy 


144  PEOPLE    WE    PASS 

Stalling,  and  I'm  going.  After  to-night- 
well,  that's  different." 

"  Wit'  Kosy  Stelling  !" 

"Yes;  why  not?  What's  plaguing  you 
now,  Lewy  ?" 

"  Say,  Kitty,  I  der  want  no  girl  t'at  goes  no 
place  wit'  Kosy  Stelling.  She  ain't  straight- 
see?" 

"  Oh,  pity's  sakes,  Lewy !"  said  Kitty,  in 
mock  despair.  "I  der  want  to  quarrel  with 
you.  I  der  know  no  harm  of  Rosy.  She  ain't 
a-going  to  eat  me  up.  Anyhow,  you  ain't  got 
no  girl  to  boss  yet,  so  leave  me  go  with  who 
I  please." 

"Well,  I  der  want  no  girl — see? — not  no 
girl  t'at  gets  talked  about  ant  goes  wit'  tough 
people.  Good-bye,  Kit." 

"  Is  it  sure  '  good-bye,'  Lewy  ?"  She  looked 
archly  towards  him.  But  his  back  was  turned 
her  way.  "  Here,  Lewy,  come  back." 

"What  t'  ye  want?"  Still  with  his  back 
towards  her. 

"I  want  —  another  —  you  know.  Quick, 
while  them  ladies  'cross  the  way  ain't  look- 
ing."  And  she  loosed  a  merry  peal  of  laughter. 


DUTCH  KITTY'S  WHITE  SLIPPERS          145 

There  was  no  seriousness  in  her,  Lewy 
thought.  Regretfully  rather  than  angrily  he 
closed  the  door  behind  him,  and  shut  out  from 
his  ears  the  ringing,  bubbling  proof  of  her 
frivolity.  Kitty  presently  returned  to  her 
task  of  renewing  her  slippers.  "  I  do  like 
Lewy,"  she  thought.  "  Ain't  he  mad,  though  ? 
Oh,  my  sakes !  I'll  have  to  give  up  dancing, 
maybe." 

Just  as  her  mother  giggled  and  laughed 
during  all  the  excitement  of  the  line-man's 
wedding  to  Minnie  Bechman,  when  it  took 
place  in  her  flat  a  year  before,  so  she  giggled 
and  laughed  now  that  Lewy  Tusch  dropped  in 
to  visit  her  on  his  way  down  from  his  quarrel 
with  Kitty  on  the  roof.  But  the  old  woman 
soon  saw  that  he  was  disturbed.  She  was  sur 
prised  when  she  learned  the  reason. 

"Kitty  ton't  t'ink  of  nartin'  but  tancin'," 
said  he.  "  Ant  she  hat  ongliter  stay  home 
more.  Ter  people's  all  talkin'  behint  her 
back." 

"  Oh,  veil,"  said  she,  "  ve  can't  help  dot. 
Kitty  iss  young  yet.  Py-and-py  she  settles 
town  all  you  vant.  Den  she  tances  ter  baby 


146  PEOPLE    WE    PASS 

— eh  ?  Vhen  she  iss  marrit,  dot  settles  her, 
sure." 

Little  comfort  Lewy  got.  But  did  he  real 
ly  want  more  ?  His  love  for  Kitty  bore  down 
on  him  like  a  great  wave.  Lord  !  suppose  she 
thought  him  really  angry  ;  suppose  she  should 
be  really  angry !  He  lingered  half  an  hour 
hoping  she  would  come  in  and  see  that  he  was 
willing  to  be  "glad  again,"  as  reconciliation  is 
termed  in  the  tenements.  What  nonsense  to 
quarrel  with  her  before  she  "got  engaged," 
and  when  she  was  going  where  other  men 
were  to  be !  Thus  the  truth  thought  itself 
out — that  jealousy  was  the  root  of  his  beha 
vior.  When  she  did  not  come,  he  started  to 
go  and  patch  up  peace  with  her.  But  he  was 
ashamed,  and  he  could  not  tell  how  angry  she 
was.  So  he  went  off  to  be  very  wretched  by 
himself. 

Crimmiris's  Park  proved  to  be  a  typical  up 
town  pleasure-ground,  mainly  covered  by  a 
dancing  pavilion,  and  having  a  few  trees  and 
tables,  and  a  merry-go-round  on  the  smaller 
remaining  space.  A  picnic  in  New  York  is 
simply  a  dance  held  in  such  a  place.  The 


DUTCH  KITTY'S  WHITE  SLIPPERS          147 

pavilion  was  crowded  by  hundreds  of  dancers, 
women  forming  the  great  majority.  Kitty 
was  one  of  the  few  who  were  singled  out  for 
admiration.  She  was  lithe  and  elastic  to  a 
wonderful  degree,  and  she  danced,  as  no  one 
can  be  taught  to  do,  with  consummate  grace 
and  freedom.  She  had  danced  herself  down 
to  little  else  than  muscle  and  bone,  though 
her  budding  womanhood  was  making  itself 
apparent  in  her  figure. 

That  was  something  she  did  not  take  into 
account — that  she  could  no  longer  enjoy  child 
ish  freedom,  as  in  the  past.  Another  fact  that 
'might  produce  its  consequences  was  that,  for 
almost  the  first  time,  she  was  attending  a  gath 
ering  made  up  of  strangers.  The  Barracks 
people  had  always  been  around  her;  now  she 
knew  no  one  but  .Rosy  Stelling. 

Like  most  such  affairs  in  New  York,  this 
picnic  attracted  a  strange  mixture  of  types 
and  grades  of  the  people.  The  members  of 
the  secret  society  that  gave  it  were  rich  or 
poor  as  it  happened,  but  now  their  wives  had 
come  together — some  to  share  in  the  demo 
cratic  relations  between  the  men,  but  a  greater 


148  PEOPLE    WE    PASS 

number  to  form  little  exclusive  groups,  as 
women  are  so  apt  to  do.  And  in  at  the  gate, 
welcomed  for  the  quarter -dollar  each  paid, 
came  "spielers"  and  their  slouching  escorts, 
servant-girls,  genteel  folk  who  heard  the  mu 
sic  and  happened  in,  bohemians  studying  life 
in  the  great  city — ever  so  many  widely  differ 
ing  persons.  The  brilliant  pavilion  drew  all 
these  moths  to  it.  The  band  was  excellent, 
filling  the  air  with  soft,  intoxicating  music. 
All  who  could  be  accommodated  were  dan 
cing  ;  others  looked  on  from  the  benches. 
Apart,  at  the  tables,  sat  others,  drinking, 
smoking,  and  listening. 

The  dancing  was  peculiar,  vigorous,  enthu 
siastic.  The  sturdy  floor  heaved  under  it. 
At  times  a  roar  like  a  roll  upon  a  gigantic 
drum  came  from  it,  and  then  all  the  dancers 
slid  simultaneously,  and  it  hissed  like  a  super 
natural  serpent.  In  the  frequent  round  dances 
the  partners  danced  side  by  side,  or  the  men 
whirled  the  women  from  one  arm  to  the  other, 
or  the  men  would  dance  behind  their  partners 
and  then  in  front  of  them.  At  times  the 
couples  merely  linked  fingers  and  galloped 


DUTCH  KITTY'S  WHITE  SLIPPERS          149 

along,  each  kicking  up  the  left  foot  and  then 
the  right,  at  intervals.  In  the  lanciers,  when 
they  should  have  balanced  corners,  they 
shot  away  clear  across  the  great  floor  and 
back.  Sets  were  composed  of  whoever  came 
along.  Servants  balanced  employers.  Rich 
men  and  "spielers"  frolicked  at  "all  hands 
around."  Bejewelled  matrons  and  sewing- 
girls  were  squeezed  together  at  "ladies  in  the 
centre."  In  the  lanciers  the  lady  opposite 
Kitty  was  an  exquisite  Jewess,  but  at  the  cor 
ner  she  balanced  was  a  street  arab,  who  fre 
quently  stood  on  his  hands  and  waved  his 
feet  at  her.  Nothing  strange  was  seen  in 
such  conditions,  ever  familiar  to  the  plain 
people  in  the  democracy  of  the  dance.  Near 
ly  every  one  was  extravagant  in  praise  of 
Kitty  and  Rosy,  who  performed  the  round 
dances  together.  They  seemed  scarcely  to 
touch  the  floor.  Kitty's  face  was  glorious 
with  pleasure,  and  though  the  revel  of  her 
skirts  was  wondrous,  modesty  guided  their 
every  movement. 

Two   well  -  dressed   young   men    came    in, 
strangers    to    every   one.      They    hobnobbed 


150  PEOPLE    WE    PASS 

with  the  cashier  at  the  bar,  who  pointed  out 
Rosy  Stelling  as  a  girl  often  seen  in  the  park 
and  easy  to  get  acquainted  with.  "  You  don't 
need  it,"  said  he,  "but  I'll  send  a  waiter  to  in 
troduce  you." 

The  waiter  said,  "  Chendlemen,  I  make  you 
acgwainted  mit  dese  ladies." 

Kitty  tried  to  escape,  but  Rosy  held  her. 

"I'm  Miss  Strange,  and  this  is  Miss  Queer," 
said  Rosy. 

"  No,"  said  Kitty.  "  My  name  is  good 
enough  for  me.  Miss  Windhurst's  my  name." 

The  young  men  gave  what  names  came  first 
to  their  lips. 

Kitty  felt  uncomfortable,  though  the  occur 
rence  would  not  seem  extraordinary  to  every 
such  girl.  Her  uneasiness  soon  gave  way  to 
something  like  fascination,  however,  for  her 
new  acquaintance  proved  an  adept  at  flatter 
ing  women,  and  such  polished,  pretty  flattery 
as  he  dealt  in  would  be  a  novelty  to  any  tene 
ment  girl. 

"  You  dance  divinely,"  said  he.  "  I'm  a 
little  afraid  of  you.  I  seem  to  be  among  the 
stars  floating  with  an  angel.  Are  you  an  an- 


"THE  CASHIKR  POINTED  OUT  UOSY  STELLING" 


DUTCH  KITTY'S  AVIIITE  SLIPPERS         151 

gel  or  a  witch  ?  Don't  look  at  me  with  those 
pretty  eyes.  I  can't  stand  it.  Are  your  eyes 
real,  or  did  you  get  them  at  Tiffany's  ?  Why 
don't  the  music  begin,  so  that  I  can  fly  away 
from  this  world  with  you  again  ?" 

Kitty  distrusted  him  ;  and  yet  how  pleasant 
it  was  to  hear  him  !  How  soft  was  his  voice, 
and  how  elegant  he  was !  His  perfect  clothes, 
his  fine  linen,  his  rings,  his  jewelled  cigarette- 
case,  his  gold  match-box,  his  soft  hands — like 
chamois-skin  to  the  touch — really,  he  was  a 
revelation  to  the  poor  working-girl. 

At  last,  she  must  go  home.  It  was  far  past 
the  hour  when  she  should  have  started.  Her 
mother  \vould  be  cross,  and  there  would  be 
more  gossip  about  her  in  the  Barracks.  The 
young  men  offered  champagne,  and  Rosy  had 
seemed — though  that  was  hard  to  believe — 
about  to  accept  it;  but,  in  Kitty's  opinion, 
champagne  and  cabs  were  two  irons  that 
branded  a  woman  indelibly.  Kitty  ordered 
lemonade,  and  the  others  drank  beer.  Then 
they  started  for  the  elevated  railroad — and 
Kitty  reached  it  alone,  flying,  with  her  hat  in 
her  hand.  It  does  not  matter  what  was  said 


152  PEOPLE    WE    PASS 

or  done.  There  was  enough  to  frighten 
Kitty  worse  than  the  mission  preacher  had 
frightened  her.  She  needed  help,  but  the 
street  was  deserted,  and  Rosy  Stelling  only 
laughed  at  her — revealing  her  true  character 
to  Kitty  in  a  way  that  doubled  her  alarm. 
Kitty  fought,  and  even  used  her  nails,  and 
then  ran  like  mad.  One  of  the  young  men 
ran  after  her — a  long  way— until  she  thought 
she  would  drop.  Presently  she  came  to  the 
railroad  and  was  whirling  homeward. 

As  she  approached  the  Big  Barracks  she 
saw  some  one  on  the  stoop.  It  was  Lewy 
Tusch.  What  was  he  doing  there  after  one 
o'clock  in  the  morning?  But,  oh,  how  glad 
she  was  to  see  him ! 

"  Oh,  Lewy!  Lewy!"  she  shouted,  as  she 
ran  up  to  him.  "I've  had  a  terrible  time.  I 
ran  away.  I  had  to,  Lewy.  I  der  want  no 
more  dancing.  You  was  right  about  it — about 
Eosy,  too." 

"  I  coultn't  sleep  goot,  so  I  come  town 
here,"  said  Lewy,  who  had  been  sitting  there 
for  hours  waiting  to  make  up  with  her.  "  I 
t'ought  you  was  home  long  ago." 


" '  I  T'INK  I'LL  POCKKT  'EM,'  SAID  LKWY  '; 


DUTCH  KITTY'S  WHITE  SLIPPERS          153 

"  You  was  right ;  and  I  can't  take  care  of 
meself,  neither.  I  'ain't  got  no  more  conceit 
left  in  me,"  said  Kitty. 

"Ain't  you  mat  at  me?"  he  asked. 

"I've  been  glad  with  you  all  the  time." 

There  was  a  little  interval  of  somewhat 
muffled  and  disjointed  speech,  expressive  of 
nothing  but  great  happiness,  and  then  Kitty 
said  she  must  go  to  bed. 

"Wait  here  a  minute,  Lewy,"  said  she, 
"  and  I'll  show  you  how  much  I'm  crushed  on 
dancing." 

Three  minutes  later  two  white  slippers  fell 
upon  the  pavement,  hurled  from  Kitty's  win 
dow. 

"  I  t'ink  I'll  pocket  'em,"  said  Lewy.  And 
he  did.  "  She'll  want  'em  to  tance  in  at  ter 
wetting." 


PEItY    BUKKfc    AMU    HIS    PUPIL 


PETEY   BURKE   AND   HIS   PUPIL 

I  IIAVE  said  before  that  all  who  lived  in  the 
Big  Barracks  tenement  in  Forsyth  Street  wor 
shipped  Doctor  Whitfield's  daughter  —  the 
beautiful,  patient,  deserted  mother  who  kept 
house  for  the  shabby-genteel  doctor  in  that 
crowded  human  hive.  Yet  it  was  a  wonder 
that  she  was  liked  by  the  Burkes,  on  the  sec 
ond  floor  back  (uptown  side).  Petey  Burke's 
way  of  forever  insisting  that  his  mother  and 
sister  admire  "Miss"  Whitfield,  as  he  did, 
idolatrotisly,  must  certainly  have  distressed 
them  if  the  doctor's  daughter  had  not  proved 
herself  worthy  of  adoration  by  her  constant 
kindness  and  self-sacrifice  towards  the  ruder 
folks  around  her.  Petey's  father — long  gone 
from  earth — had  been  an  upper  servant  in  a 
nobleman's  house  in  the  old  country,  and  his 
respect  for  good-breeding  was  so  strong  that 
it  descended  in  full  force  to  his  children.  The 


158  PEOPLE    WE    PASS 

consequence  was  that  Petey  Burke  grew  up 
to  be  the  tidiest  lad  in  the  Barracks  colony — 
always  in  black,  and  as  neat  and  sober  as  an 
undertaker.  And  his  sister  Norah — a  pretty, 
stunted  little  thing,  like  a  dwarfed  tree  of 
Japan — seemed  to  the  boys  of  the  block  as  ex 
quisite  as  a  confection.  Neither  Petey  nor 
Norah  held  aloof  from  the  rude,  hearty  life 
around  them,  but  Petey  carried  himself  like  a 
leader,  and  Norah  was  the  only  girl  who  could 
keep  the  men  and  boys  around  her  and  at  a 
distance  besides.  As  one  of  the  lads  expressed 
it,  "  She's  de  on'y  girl  a  feller  wants  to  maul, 
and  she's  de  on'y  one  a  feller  can't." 

Petey  gave  no  credit  to  his  father  for  No- 
rah's  genteel  appearance  and  pretty  ways.  He 
ascribed  them,  and  even  her  irreproachable 
morals,  to  the  influence  of  Doctor  Whitfield's 
daughter,  transmitted  through  himself.  While 
his  mother  drank  beer  in  the  kitchen,  proof 
against  every  influence  but  that  of  her  peasant 
training,  her  children  felt  the  impetus  of  New 
World  conditions,  and  soared  far  beyond  her 
sphere,  and  beyond  even  her  understanding — 
a  common  miracle  of  our  social  system.  Petey 


PETEY    BUKKE    AND    HIS    PUPIL  159 

took  his  mother's  place  as  the  guide  and  in 
structor  of  his  sister. 

Norah  Adeline  Burke  was  nearly  seventeen, 
and  was  already  first  helper  to  the  Head  of 
Department  of  the  Made-up  Millinery  Room 
in  one  of  the  great  shopping  stores.  That  is 
proof  of  her  remarkable  natural  taste — that 
and  the  fact  that  she  was  often  successful  in 
trimming  hats  and  bonnets  as  stylish  as  any 
the  shop  turned  out.  And,  as  is  the  case  with 
American  shop-girls  of  far  lower  grade,  she 
dressed  with  as  good  an  imitation  of  the  fash 
ions  as  many  a  woman  of  greater  pretensions 
— a  difficult  thing,  because  the  girls  who  do  it 
have  to  find  cheap  goods  that  will  do  duty  as 
the  bases  of  styles  which  are  created  writh 
cloths  made  only  in  high-priced  patterns.  The 
reader  would  never  have  taken  her  for  what 
she  was  if  he  saw  her  on  the  way  to  the  shop 
with  a  silk  bag  on  her  arm,  such  as  ladies 
carry,  and  two  or  three  fat,  well-bound  books 
under  one  elbow,  to  make  believe  she  was  go 
ing  to  the  Normal  College  two  hours  ahead  of 
time.  The  carrying  of  these  school-books  was 

a  trick  that   was   not   copied   from  "  Miss " 
10 


160  PEOPLE    WE    PASS 

Wliitfield.  Therefore  it  was  gravely  displeas 
ing  to  Petey. 

"Norah,"  said  lie,  once,  "them  books  '11 
queer  you  dead  's  long  as  yer  carry  'em  ;  that's 
straight.  You'll  never  get  no  rich  feller ;  an' 
if  yer  was  to  catch  a  shoe -black  for  your 
'  steady,'  he'd  be  a  rank  no  good.  Der  reason 
is  because — say,  Norah,  der  doctor's  daughter 
wouldn't  lug  dem  books  around  if  she  was  in 
your  place,  an'  you  know  it.  She  wouldn't, 
'cause  it  ain't  up-an'-up ;  'tain't  honest  an' 
square  —  see?  It's  nartin'  but  a  bluff,  and  it 
shows  you  ain't  on  de  level.  De  doctor's 
daughter  wouldn't  make  out  she's  ariyt'ing  but 
what  she  is.  Den  why  don't  yer  quit,  sis  $ 
Come,  now,  gir-yul,  what's  eating  you  to  make 
yer  do  sich  a  t'ing  ?" 

" Petey,  why  shouldn't  I?  Miss  Reilly 
fetches  school-books  to  her  work,"  says  Miss 
Norah ;  "  and  so  do  plenty  others.  Maggie 
Hurley  does  too,  and  you're  the  only  one  that's 
sore  about  it." 

"  Say,  Norah,  you  give  me  a  pain.  Miss 
Keilly!  and  Maggie  Hurley! — you've  got  to 
trot  out  something  better  than  them  tamers  if 


PETEY    BURKE    AND    HIS   PUPIL  161 

you're  goin'  to  put  up  agin  de  doctor's  daugh 
ter.  And  say,  I  seen  you  lookin'  at  a  gang  in 
de  street  coming  home  yesterday — de  gang 
dat  was  monkeying  wid  de  drunken  man. 
Now,  gir-yul,  I've  told  you  many's  de  time  dat 
she  don't  never  look  at  annyt'ing  in  de  street 
— not  if  a  house  fell  down  over  de  way,  she 
wouldn't  give  it  de  satisfaction  to  t'row  one 
eye  at  it.  All  de  jays  an'  dudes  looks  at  her 
wherever  she  goes.  She's  so  tony  dat  she 
lives  like  she  was  on  de  stage  in  de  tee-ayter 
wid  dead  crowds  piping  her  off  der  hull  time 
— see  ?  But  she  looks  straight  ahead,  till  some 
one  tries  fer  to  catch  her  eye  from  de  front, 
and  den  she  looks  at  der  sidewalk.  She  kin 
see  all  she  wants  to  widout  seemin'  to ;  and  so 
kin  you,  Norah,  unless  you  'ain't  got  no  re 
spect  fer  yerself  and  yer  out  on  de  mash." 

"  That  '11  do,  now,  Petey  Burke.  Ain't  you 
terrible  ?  You're  the  only  one  on  the  block 
that  doesn't  respect  me." 

"  Fwhat's  ailing  oo,  Petey  ?"  cried  the  old 
mother  from  an  inner  room.  "  Korah,  darlin', 
f  what's  he  sayin'  to  oo  ?" 

"  He — he  called  me  out  of  my  name,  moth- 


162  PEOPLE    WE    PASS 

er,"  said  the  girl,  sobbing ;  "and  that's  not  the 
first  time.  Trying  to  make  me  better  than  a 
saint,  and  yet  calling  me  worse  than  I  am." 

In  an  instant  Petey  was  down  beside  the 
sofa  on  which  his  sister  sat,  with  his  black  but 
ton  head  in  her  lap. 

"  Soak  me  one,  sis,"  he  said;  " yes, sure;  on 
de  side  of  me  head.  .  .  .  Oh,  but  dat  was  a 
Peter  Hickey  !  Now  you  feel  better.  Dere's 
a  cream-drop  fer  you"  (kissing  her  with  a 
clumsy  show  of  tenderness).  "  You  know  I'm 
dead  gone  on  you,  Norah ;  and  fer  a  gir-yul 
dat's  born  poor,  dere  ain't  no  lady  dat's  in  it 
wid  you." 

"  I  never  look  at  any  man  out-of-doors, 
Petey." 

"  If  I  fought  you  would,"  said  Petey,  "  I 
wouldn't  take  you  out  and  buy  you  de  best 
ring  you  kin  git  off  de  biggest  jeweller  in  de 
Bowery — and  dat's  what  I'm  a-goin'  to  do  to 
night,  Norali ;  I'm  a  farmer  if  I  don't.  See  ?" 

"  A  ring,  Petey  !  Are  you  ?  You're  the 
best  brother  in  the  ward.  But — but,  Petey, 
I'd  rather  have  you  trust  me  than  have  a  dia 
mond  from  you." 


PETEY    BUKKE    AND    HIS   PUPIL  163 

With  the  doctor's  daughter,  whom  he  saw 
as  often  as  he  could  pluck  up  the  needed 
courage  to  sidle  into  her  front  room,  fumbling 
his  hat  in  his  hand,  Petey  never  tried,  as 
others  did,  to  talk  what  was  called  "tony 
talk,"  or  "  blooded  English."  He  was  perfect 
ly  natural  in  his  speech  with  her. 

"  I  got  ter  talk  tough,"  he  explained  ;  "  der 
boys  wouldn't  take  no  other  kinder  talk.  We 
all  study  it  like  we  used  ter  study  'rit'mertic 
in  school,  an'  de  one  dat's  on  to  de  latest 
words  is  de  one  dat  leads  de  mob,  y'under- 
stand." 

He  saw  her  almost  as  frequently  as  did  Mr. 
Fletcher,  the  rich  but  bashful  mill-owner  of 
the  neighborhood,  who  hoped  to  win  her  love 
— the  same  Mr.  Fletcher  who  once  upon  a 
time  told  Cordelia  Mahoney  truly  that  he 
knew  no  woman,  and  never  had  known  one, 
except  the  dead  aunt  who  left  him  a  boy 
on  a  Vermont  hill-side.  For  quick  wit  and 
unceasing  alertness  there  are  not  many  of 
Petey's  equals,  even  in  that  abnormally  sharp 
street -bred  population.  Therefore  one  day 
when  he  was  bidden  to  come  in  and  found 


164  PEOPLE    WE    PASS 

"  Miss  "  Whitfield's  eyes  red  from  weeping, 
and  a  photograph  lying  in  her  lap,  he  stole 
such  a  look  at  the  portrait  as  he  passed  behind 
her  chair  that  he  thought  he  should  never  for 
get  the  pictured  man's  features. 

"  Is  there  anything  I  can  do  for  you,  Mr. 
Burke,  or  for  any  one  in  the  house  ?"  she 
asked. 

"  I  guess  I'm  the  one  to  be  askin'  ef  I  kin 
do  sump'n  fer  you.  What's  gone  ag'in  you, 
ma'am  ?  I  didn't  know  you  ever  could  look 
anyways  'cept  sunshiny." 

"  Oh  yes,  Mr.  Burke  ;  I  am  only  a  woman, 
with  a  woman's  share  of  trouble." 

"  Ef  dat  mug — sense  me,  ma'am,  dat  face 
you're  a-lookin'  at — ef  it  queers  you  like  dat, 
why  don't  you  chuck  it?" 

"  That  would  do  no  good,"  said  she,  with  a 
sad  smile ;  and  then  she  added,  not  knowing 
why  her  habitual  reserve  should  so  break  down 
(but  friends  were  few  with  her) :  "  That  is  my 
husband's  portrait.  I  do  not  often  look  at  it, 
but  whether  I  do  or  no,  it  means  life-long  un- 
happiness,  just  the  same." 

"  Is  he  er — did  he  er — " 


PETEY    BURKE    AND    HIS    PUPIL  165 

"  He  left  me — a  month  after  we  were  mar 
ried  ;  before  baby  was  born." 

"  Say,  he's  a — well,  English  ain't  in  it  to 
tell  what  he  is !  I  should  t'ink  you'd  be  so 
dead  sore  on  him — say,  I'd  be  so  hot  in  de 
collar  I  couldn't  cry.  Sense  me,  but  hain't 
you  got  de  stuff  fer  to  pay  no  lawyer  to  git  you 
quit  of  him  ?" 

"  I  don't  believe  in  divorce,"  she  said,  rising 
and  putting  the  photograph  away;  "but  I 
never  speak  of  him — or  of  myself — as  a  rule. 
I  cannot  tell  why  I  have  done  so  to  you." 

"  Hoi'  on,  ma'am,"  said  Petey.  "  Do  you 
know  where  he  is — does  he  do  annyt'ing  fer 
you  ?" 

"  No,"  said  she,  in  answer  to  both  questions. 
"  There,  now,  tell  me  how  I  can  be  of  service 
to  you." 

"  I  der  want  nartin' — dat's  straight.  I  just 
t'ought  yer  wouldn't  mind  my  comin'  in,  and 
mebbe  you'd  give  me  some  good  talk,  like  you 
did  oncet." 

She  was  ten  years  older  than  Petey,  and 
hers  was  such  innate  dignity  that  she  risked 
nothing  in  displaying  a  kindly  feeling  for  her 


166  PEOPLE    WE    PASS 

rude  admirer.  "  I  cannot  help  you,"  said  she, 
stopping  before  him  to  arrange  his  hair  with 
the  light  touch  that  a  sister  might  bestow 
upon  him.  "  You  will  never  be  anything  but 
a  good  man  when  you  are  grown  up.  You 
will  always  be  kind  to  your  mother,  and  guard 
your  sister,  and  keep  good  companions  and 
good  habits.  That  is  all — except  always  to  be 
sure  of  your  own  self-respect — and  you  will 
not  find  that  too  hard  to  do." 

Petey  repeated  these  simple  rules  for  an 
honorable  life  to  his  sister  as  if  he  had  origi 
nated  them.  "  Norah,"  said  he,  "  I'd  bank  all 
I  ever  get  dat  you'll  be  a  dead  lady.  All  you 
got  to  do,  Norah,  is  ter  do  de  square  act  wid 
mother,  an'  be  up -an'- up  wid  me,  an'  don't 
monkey  wid  no  tough  mob  of  gir-yuls  nor  no 
crooked  fellers.  Dat's  der  hull  shootin'- 
match,  'cept  yer've  got  to  be  square  wid  yer- 
self  and  really  b'leeve  yer  as  good  as  yer  let 
on." 

She  seemed  to  be  in  no  need  of  so  much  ad 
vice,  so  frank  and  proud  was  her  appearance. 
"  Petey,"  said  she,  "any  one  would  think  you 
wanted  me  to  catch  a  Yanderbilt ;  but  if  I 


PETEY    BURKE    AND    HIS    PUPIL  167 

minded  you  I'd  be  such  a  saint  that  nothin' 
but  priests  would  look  at  me." 

His  admiration  for  his  sister  seemed  lost  in 
his  efforts  to  have  her  copy  Miss  Whitfield. 
Yet  it  was  his  sister  that  he  truly  loved. 

"  It's  as  bad  for  folks  to  have  too  much 
money,"  said  he,  "  as  it  is  to  be  rotten  poor. 
De  best  folks  is  de  half-wayers,  what  has  to 
fight  fer  whatever  dey  git.  Dat's  where  you 
come  in,  Norah  ;  you  got  ter  keep  boosting 
yerself  over  de  crowd,  or  you'll  climb  back 
into  de  gutter  wid  de  mob  dat's  satisfied  wid 
bein'  walked  over."  He  glanced  proudly  at 
his  sister's  neat  boots  and  gloves,  peculiar  in 
the  neighborhood,  and  flattered  himself  that 
he  had  led  Norah  to  value  many  such  little 
but  important  marks  of  good  -  breeding. 
"Y'ain't  blooded  like  she  is,''  he  said,  "but 
yer  nee'nter  give  it  'way.  Make  a  big  bluff  at 
what  you  ain't  got,  every  time !  Say,  gir-yul," 
he  said,  "I'm  all  broke  up  over  what  I've  got 
on  to.  Mr.  Fletcher  '11  never  tie  up  wid  Miss 
Whitfield.  He  comes  one  in  a  box  like  a  dol 
lar  seegar,  and  them  two  was  like  a  pair  of 
lips,  made  to  come  together — but  it  don't  go 


168  PEOPLE    WE    PASS 

— see?  She's  got  a  husband  what  ain't  no 
more  dead  dan  me  'n  you  are.  And  she  won't 
never  get  no  divorce — she  told  me  so  on  the 
d.  q.» 

"  Is  that  her  misery  ?"  Norah  asked.  "  Ain't 
it  terrible?  Of  course  she  won't  get  a  di 
vorce.  That's  like  putting  on  your  shoes  out 
in  the  street — to  a  lady.  But  she  ain't  like 
me.  I  wouldn't  eat  my  heart  out  for  the  best 
man  going." 

"  Yes,  yer  would,"  said  he.  "  If  you  git  de 
double  cross  put  on  you,  yer'll  take  it  like  it 
was  medicine.  But  I'm  dead  sorry  fer  Mr. 
Fletcher.  He  don't  tog  up  in  a  silk  dicer  an' 
patent-leathers  to  call  on  de  doctor — not  on 
your  life  he  don't." 

Poor  Fletcher!  He  had  already  learned 
that  the  sole  woman  he  had  known  well  or 
ever  loved — except  his  aunt — was  not  a  wid 
ow,  or  of  a  mind  to  free  herself  from  the 
wretch  who  had  so  misused  her.  lie  was 
brooding  over  his  disappointment  at  his  of 
fice  desk  one  day,  when  Petey  bolted  in  and 
startled  him  with  a  volley  of  questions. 

"  Say,  Mr.  Fletcher,  what's  de  name  of  de 


PETEY   BURKE    AND    HIS    PUPIL  169 

mug  what  de  doctor's  daughter's  married  to  ? 
—an'  where  is  he  ? — and  what's  his  lay — 'cause 
he's  a  crook,  of  course;  ain't  he  ?" 

"  Why  do  you  ask  ?" 

"  I  ain't  askin'  fer  no  harm.  I  can't  give 
you  no  talk  now.  Tell  me — quick  's  yer  can." 

"  I  only  know — the  doctor  told  me,"  said 
Fletcher — "  that  he  is  a  very  sad  rascal — bad 
in  every  drop  of  his  blood.  His  name  is  Jen 
sen.  He  had  nice  connections  in  Cincinnati, 
where  she  was  at  school,  and  he  married  her 
and  beat  her  and  robbed  her  and  left  her.  It's 
years  since  they've  heard — 

"  Keerect !"  shouted  Petey,  and  bolted  out 
of  the  door.  Straight  to  a  grand  house  on  the 
north  side  of  Washington  Square  he  ran,  and 
straight  to  the  area  door.  He  had  seen  enter 
that  house,  by  the  front  door,  a  man  who  bore 
the  face  of  the  photograph  over  which  he 
had  seen  the  doctor's  daughter  crying.  Very 
adroitly  he  wormed  from  the  servant-girl  at 
the  basement  door  the  little  she  knew  of  the 
caller  abovestairs.  She  said  that  he  was  Mr. 
Holbrook,  and  that  on  "  Tuesday  come  wan 
week"  he  was  to  marry  Miss  Grandish,  "the 


170  PEOPLE    WE    PASS 

masther's  daughter."  For  this  information 
Petey  rewarded  the  maid  with  a  startlingly 
sudden  kiss,  and  then  cleverly  dodged  the 
blow  with  which  she  meant  to  take  her  re 
venge.  Petey  lounged  across  the  street,  on 
the  park  side,  until  in  an  hour  the  man  for 
whom  he  waited  came  out  by  the  Grandishs' 
door.  Then  Petey  ran  over,  caught  up  with 
the  man,  and  said  in  his  ear,  "  Hello,  Jensen  !" 
The  man  started  and  all  but  stopped  ;  then  his 
nerve  came  back,  and  he  quickened  his  pace, 
as  if  to  ignore  the  boy. 

"  I  said,  <  Hello,  Jensen  !'  " 

Instantly  the  man  turned  and  seized  Petey 
by  the  throat. 

"  You  neeVt  to  do  dat ;  Pd  stay  wid  you  if 
you  left  go  of  me.  You  can't  lose  me,  Charley.57 

The  man  raised  his  cane  to  strike  the  lad 
across  the  face.  Petey  did  not  flinch. 

"  What  good  '11  dat  do  yer,"  he  asked,  "  s'long 
as  I'm  on  to  you  ?"  The  man  dropped  his 
arm  and  released  the  lad.  Then  Petey  did 
what  a  street  boy's  training  made  it  impossible 
for  him  to  resist.  He  pushed  up  against  the 
well-dressed  man,  shoved  out  his  chin  like  a 


"  I'ETEY    LOUNGED    ACROSS    THE    STREET    ON    THE    PARK    SIDE 


PETEY    BURKE    AND    HIS    PUPIL  171 

bully,  and  tried  to  press  his  face  close  up  to 
that  of  the  man  he  threatened.  "  A-a-h,"  he 
snarled,  "  why  don't  yer  soak  me  ?  Never 
mind  me  bein'  littler ;  hit  me ;  g'on,  I  dare 
yer !" 

Jensen,  for  it  was  "  Miss  "  Whitfield's  hus 
band,  stepped  back,  and  asked,  "  In  God's 
name*,  how  do  you  know  me,  and  what  do  you 
want?" 

Petey  was  prompted  to  reply,  "I've  got  all 
I  want,"  but  a  new  idea  seized  his  quick  brain, 
and  he  said,  "  I  was  t'inking  who'd  give  de 
most  fer  what  I  know — you  er  Mr.  Grand- 
ish?" 

"-  -you!  I'll  kill  you  !" 

"Oh  yes;  I  don't  think,"  said  Petey. 
"You'll  try  ter  get  friends  wid  me,  more 
likely." 

"  Who  are  you  ?  What  do  you  know  ?" 
"  My  name's  Petey  Burke.  You  often  read 
about  me  in  de  paper — me  an'  der  Mayor  and 
Mr.  Depew.  I  want  you  to  cough  up  a  hun- 
derd,  or  I'll  tell  Mr.  Grandish  what  I  know. 
Goo'-bye;  I'll  chase  rneself  over  to  oP  man 
Grandish's  stoop,  and  wait  dere  till  you  bring 


172  PEOPLE    WE    PASS 

me  der  hunderd.  Say,  it's  free  o'clock  now; 
I'll  split  at  five  if  I  don't  git  de  boodle." 

Petey  sauntered  back  to  the  Grandisli  house 
and  seated  himself  on  the  stoop.  "A  hunderd 
'11  come  in  pat  to  de  doctor's  daughter,"  he 
thought.  "  It  '11  be  her  own,  too ;  some  of 
what  he  stole.  'N'  I  won't  tell  ole  Grandish. 
I  kin  promise  dat.  I'll  let  it  go  wid  tellin'  de 
police.  Ole  Grandish  don't  cut  no  ice  wid 
me." 

Half  an  hour  passed,  and  Miss  Grandish 
came  out,  dressed  for  the  street.  She  looked 
curiously  at  the  black-eyed,  bright-faced  ten 
ement  lad,  wondering  why  he  sat  on  her  stoop. 
He  glanced  at  her ;  then  looked  at  her  point- 
blank  with  wide-eyed  admiration.  He  admit 
ted  to  himself  that  she  had  a  degree  of  youth 
ful,  rosy  vigor  that  had  gone  from  the  doctor's 
daughter,  and  yet  she  was  just  as  "  fine  a  lady," 
he  thought. 

"  Are  you  Miss  Grandish  ?"  he  inquired. 

"  I  am.     Why  do  you  inquire  ?" 

"  Oh,  miss,  don't  t'ink  I'm  loony,  but  do 
tell  me — are  you  the  one — that — that — 

"  I  am  the  only  young  lady  here,"  said  she. 


"  MISS   GRANDISH    CAME    OUT,  DRESSED   FOR   THE    STREET " 


PETEY    BURKE    AND    HIS    PUPIL  173 

"  Then,"  said  Petey,  "  I  am  de  best  friend 
you  got  in  de  world.  Your  father  ain't  in  it 
wid  me.  Hully  gee !  I  pretty  near  slipped  a 
cog  dat  time.  Don't  be  a-scared  dat  I'll  forgit 
you.  You'll  see  me  chasm'  meself  back  here 
like  I'd  left  a  di'mond  pin  and  come  back  fer 
it.  So  long,  miss." 

Miss  Grandish  fancied  she  had  held  that  in 
terview  with  a  lunatic  licensed  vender  who 
spoke  English  words  without  arranging  them 
in  English  order.  Petey  strode  away,  talking 
to  himself. 

"  Money  kin  come  too  high  sometimes,  de 
same  as  Dutch  cheese,"  he  said.  "  I  guess  de 
doctor's  daughter  der  want  no  hunderd  dat  '11 
leave  anoder  gir-yul  in  de  same  hole  as  she's  in." 

Petey  lived  on  the  people,  and  did  little  or 
nothing  for  his  keep.  He  was  a  lieutenant 
and  favorite  of  "Sheeny  Mose,"  the  State 
Senator,  who  got  him  a  place  that  was  a  sine 
cure  in  the  sheriff's  office  at  three  dollars  a 
day.  It  was  too  bad  to  demoralize  so  honest 
a  lad,  and  to  teach  him  that  (as  he  would  have 
said)  "  public  office  is  a  private  snap "  ;  but 
politics  of  the  machine  kind  are  demoralizing 


174  PEOPLE    WE    PASS 

a  large  fraction  of  the  population  in  this  and 
many  other  ways.  Having  "a  pull"  in  poli 
tics,  he  went  at  once  to  Police  Headquarters, 
and,  with  a  knowledge  born  of  long  acquaint 
ance  with  the  place,  went  straight  to  the 
"  Rogues'  Galleiy,"  in  the  semi-court-room  of 
the  "  chief,"  where  the  detectives'  prisoners 
are  arraigned  to  give  their  "  pedigrees."  The 
"gallery"  is  a  great  black- walnut  book  against 
the  wall,  and  its  leaves  are  wooden,  hinged 
frames  full  of  photographs.  Petey  turned 
over  a  score  of  leaves,  and  then  suddenly  his 
eyes  brightened,  and  he  studied  a  particular 
picture  as  a  bachelor  might  study  the  face  of 
a  girl  that  a  fortune-teller  had  declared  would 
one  day  become  his  wife.  Presently  he  closed 
the  great  book  and  walked  straight  into  the 
awesome  presence  of  the  chief  of  detectives. 
Thirty  seconds  afterwards  that  great  man  was 
listening  eagerly  to  what  Petey  had  to  tell 
him. 

A  week  later  Petey  called  upon  "Miss" 
Whitfield  and  gave  her  a  copy  of  an  evening 
newspaper.  "  Read  that,  miss,"  he  said.  "  I 
always  wanted  to  show  yer  dat  I  would  do 


PETEY    BUKKE    AND    HIS    PUPIL  175 

anyt'ing  I  could  fer  you.  You'll  cry  over  dat 
picture  some  more,  I  don't  t'ink." 

The  beautiful  and  kindly  face  was  turned 
upon  the  staring  head-lines  of  the  newspaper, 
and  presently  she  caught  their  meaning,  and 
recoiled  as  if  she  had  been  struck.  "  Merciful 
heavens  !"  she  exclaimed.  "He?  Arrested — 
shot !  Where  is  he,  Peter  Burke  ?  What  has 
been  done  with  him  ?" 

"  He's  in  de  hospital,  ma'am,"  said  Petey. 

"Is  he  badly  hurt?" 

"  He  was  collared  in  de  house  where  he  was 
sparkin'  a  girl  he  was  a-goin'  to  marry.  He 
made  a  lep  for  de  winder,  an'  he  got  a  hole  in 
his  back  dat  looks  as  if  he'd  been  plugged  wid 
a  baseball." 

The  doctor's  daughter  sank  upon  the  lounge 
and  buried  her  face  in  her  hands. 

"I  found  him,  miss,"  said  Petey;  "I  re 
cognized  him  by  de  photo  dat  made  you  cry ; 
it's  all  in  de  paper." 

"You?  You  did  this?  Oh,  Peter,  why 
did  you  do  it  ?" 

"  Why,  miss  ?     Say— aren't  you— glad  ?" 

"Glad?"    she    cried,   almost   hysterically; 
11 


176  PEOPLE    WE    PASS 

"glad  to  have  my  baby's  father  arrested — 
shot  down  by  the  officers — publicly  disgraced ! 
Oh,  Peter,  why  must  you  have  dealt  me  this 
blow  ?" 

Petey  never  knew  how  he  left  her  presence 
— a  guilty,  shocked,  and  shrinking  creature, 
much  more  ashamed  than  he  had  been  proud 
earlier  in  the  day.  He  went  straight  to  his 
sister. 

"Norah,"  said  he,  "I  kin  give  you  a  pointer. 
You  must  always  speak  low  an'  soft  an'  quiet. 
I  know  you  do ;  you  ne'enter  say  a  word.  But 
what  I  mean  is,  can  you  do  it  all  de  way 
t'rough?  'Cause  yer  got  to,  sis.  Never  mind 
if  your  heart's  broke,  or  if  a  man  hits  you — 
never  mind  if  you're  all  tore  up  an'  crazy — 
you  must  talk  as  if  your  mouth  was  chuck  full 
of  butter.  You  der  want  ter  be  no  tarrier, 
sis,  and  holler  like  a  foreman  at  a  fire ;  de 
t'oroughbreds  never  do  it — see  ?" 

Two  days  after  this,  at  the  hospital,  Petey 
was  allowed  to  visit  the  wounded  man,  and 
there  he  found  the  doctor's  daughter  seeking 
her  husband  to  befriend  him. 

"  I  made  a  bad  break,  miss,"  he  whispered 


PETEY    BUKKE    AND    HIS    PUPIL  177 

to  her;  "and  I'm  dead  sore  on  meself  and 
want  to  make  meself  solid  again.  D'ye  t'ink 
you  could  give  him  dese  widout  any  one  get 
ting  on  to  you  ?  They're  files  and  a  saw,  so's 
he  kin  cut  his  way  out  when  he's  in  de  cooler. 
Don't  be  scared  ;  you  ne'enter  bother.  I  can 
pass  'em  to  him.  Oh,  you  t'ink  you'd  be  sus- 
picioned?  'No  1  You  t'ink  it  ain't  right;  de  law 
should  be  respected?  Shoot  de  law ! — let  de  law 
look  out  fer  itself.  I  mustn't  give  'em  to  him  ? 
You're '  way  off,  miss,  but  whatever  you  say  goes 
furder  wid  me  dan  de  pull  of  a  cable-car." 

The  wounded  man  opened  his  eyes  as  his 
wife  left  Petey  and  approached  his  cot.  It 
was  by  a  great  effort  that  Jensen  raised  him 
self  upon  one  elbow  and  glared  at  the  woman 
whom  he  had  so  cruelly  wronged. 

"  Is  it  you,  you !"  He  called  her  a  fear 
ful  name.  "  You  are  at  the  bottom  of  this.  I 
might  have  guessed  it.  Come  closer.  Ah,  you 
know  me ;  I'd  leave  you  a  mark  you'd  carry 

to  your  grave you !"  And  then  the 

wretch  cursed  her  so  fearfully  that  it  seemed 
as  if  never  did  evil  tongue  and  wicked  heart 
pour  forth  more  bitter  venom. 


178  PEOPLE    WE    PASS 

"  Scuse  me,  ma'am,"  said  Petey,  striding  up 
to  the  wretched  wife,  as  she  stood  with  her 
head  bent  beneath  the  torrent  of  abuse.  "  You 
can't  stay  and  hear  any  more  of  that.  Come 
wid  me,  miss;  you  must — or  I'll  choke  him 
to  death  in  anoder  second.  You're  an  angel, 
miss,  and  you  don't  know  what  he's  a-sayin', 
but  I  do,  and  I  can't  stand  it." 

"  He  is  my  husband—" 

"  Come  away,  miss.  You  got  to.  Don't 
shame  a  tough  feller  like  me  by  letting  me 
know  you  stood  and  heard  such  talk  as 
dat." 

Out  in  the  hallway  she  again  restrained 
him.  "  If  he  grows  worse,"  said  she,  "  my 
place  is  by  his  side.  Do  you  not  understand 
that  he  is  my  husband — that  we  each  took  the 
other  for  better  or  worse  ?" 

"I  can't  understand  nothing,  miss,"  said 
Petey,  "  except  that  you  an'  me  don't  sagaci- 
ate  no  more'n  if  you  was  de  Queen  of  Peru 
an'  I  was  a  Chinaman ;  but  go  'way — please 
g'on  home — dat's  right — an'  I'll  post  you  every 
day." 

When  Petey  returned  to  the  sick-ward  he 


PETEY    BURKE    AND    HIS    PUPIL  179 

met  the  house  surgeon.  "  Strange,"  said  the 
doctor,  "  but  that  villain's  wife  seems  a  per 
fect  lady." 

"  Seems  ?"  said  Petey.  "  Hully  gee  !  She's 
finer'n  silk,  and  harder  to  beat  dan  a  china 

egg." 

"  Jensen  will  not  live  the  night  out,"  said 
the  doctor.  "  He  can't.  No  man  wounded 
as  he  is  ever  lived  so  long  as  he  has  already." 

"If  I  had  a  hunderd,  doctor,  I'd  give  it  to 
you  fer  just  thinking  what  you  say." 

"  I  am  certain  of  it." 

"  Oh,  but  that's  dandy  !"  said  Petey.  "  Say, 
that's  a  bird,  that  news  is." 

A  week  passed,  and  then,  at  the  same  hour 
that  a  slender  young  woman  in  deep  mourn 
ing  laid  an  inexpensive  wreath  upon  a  new- 
made  nameless  grave  in  Greenwood,  Petey 
Burke  revealed  to  his  sister  more  of  his  dis 
coveries  in  the  genteel  world  above  him. 

"  I  met  dat  Grandisli  gir-yul,  Norah,"  said 
he,  "  and  rnebbe  she  ain't  blooded  !  She's  a 
dead  t'oroughbred,  or  I'm  a  farmer.  Says  I, 
'  I'm  the  lad  dat  told  you  I  was  de  best  friend 
you  had.'  Says  she,  '  I  know  you,  an'  I  wish 


180  PEOPLE    WE   PASS 

I  could  see  an  officer  ;  I'd  hand  you  over.' 
Dat's  what  I  got  fer  not  lettin'  her  imitate  a 
woman  committing  bigamy.  As  for  de  doc 
tor's  daughter,  she  looks  at  me  cross-eyed,  as 
if  I  was  a  blast  wid  de  fuse  lighted.  She  don't 
say  nartin'  ugly  —  wisht  she  would  —  but  she 
talks  to  me  's  if  I  was  a  corpse,  an'  she  was 
bending  over  me  an'  t'inking  what  a  dead 
failure  I  made  of  life." 

"Poor  Pete!"  says  Norah.  "Both  those 
women  were  in  love." 

"  Dat's  just  de  size  of  it,"  said  Petey.  "  An' 
now  let  me  give  you  sump'n  straight.  Bote  o' 
dem  women  is  dead  ladies,  blooded  to  de  heels, 
and  dey  never  shake  a  husband  or  a  lover  or  a 
friend.  Dat's  a  curve  you  want  to  get  on  to, 
Norah.  If  you  should  git  engaged  to  de  best 
man  dat  ever  said  his  prayers,  you  want  to  try 
yerself  wid  him.  Set  yerself  to  t'inkin'  mean 
about  him.  Make  out  he's  a  sneak  dat  collars 
overcoats  an'  lifts  door-mats  in  de  brown-stone 
deestrict.  When  he  sash-shays  in  of  an  even- 
in'  make  yourself  b'leeve  dat  he's  chasin'  him 
self  for  his  life,  an'  dat  de  coppers  is  lined  up 
on  de  sidewalk  layin'  for  him  to  come  out. 


PETEY    BURKE    AND    HIS    PUPIL  181 

And,  say,  Norali,  when  you  really  b'leeve  de 
worst  dat  you  can  t'ink  agin  him,  I  tell  yer 
what  you  do :  walk  right  up  an'  put  your  two 
cute  little  arms  around  his  neck,  and  says  you, 
'  Ole  man,  dere  ain't  nartin'  kin  queer  you  wid 
your  Norah.'  Tell  him  cobbler's  wax  ain't 
in  it  wid  a  lady  for  stickin'  to  what  she  likes. 
Cause  dat's  what  I  found  out  about  t'orough- 
breds,  Norah,  and  what  dey  do  you  kin  make 
a  bluff  at." 


LPW   DUTCH  IH 

AMD   HIGH 


LOW  DUTCH  AND   HIGH 

You  will  know  Frenchtown  by  the  signs  on 
its  small  and  odoriferous  restaurants  and  the 
shops  of  its  cabinet-makers.,  wine- dealers, 
flower-workers,  coppersmiths,  and  of  its  solitary 
French  bookseller.  Some  of  the  tenements 
are  old  dwellings  come  down  in  the  world  ; 
and  of  the  factories  and  shops  some  are  built 
for  the  purpose,  and  others  are  "  made  over." 
Mudder's  was  an  old  dwelling,  in  which  she  liad 
absorbed  flat  after  flat  until  her  lodgers  filled 
the  entire  tenement.  She  also  took  boarders 
from  the  tenements  that  towered  on  either  side 
of  her  house,  making  it  look  as  lean  and  little 
as  the  heart  of  a  Coney  Island  sandwich. 

George  Fletcher  was  looking  at  it  mourn 
fully  the  other  day,  for  it  is  again  a  tene 
ment.  The  day  was  of  that  close,  warm  sort, 
when  a  blind  New  Yorker  can  smell  where 
he  is,  and  Fletcher  noted  the  difference  be- 


186  PEOPLE    AVE   PASS 

tween  the  grease-and-garlic  odor  he  had  left  in 
Dutchtown  and  the  bay-leaf-and-garlic  tone 
now  present.  The  tires  of  a  carriage  ground 
against  the  curb.  A  carriage  —  here?  he 
thought;  and  wondered  who  was  dead.  He 
looked  around. 

"Why,  hullo,  Leonie!"  he  said. 

"  Sakes  !  Mister  Fletcher ;  I  har'ly  knew 
you,"  said  the  young  woman,  who  was  already 
half  out  upon  the  walk.  "Shake  hands,  for 
old  times." 

She  was  a  portly,  dashing  woman  in  a  black 
dress,  with  a  deal  too  much  red  velvet  down 
the  bodice  and  around  the  neck,  sleeves,  waist, 
and  hem.  Her  bonnet,  also,  was  large  and 
startling ;  but  she  had  an  honest,  happy  face, 
and  she  was  a  splendid,  vigorous  creature. 

"Now  jist  wait  a  minute  till  I  tell  Mr. 
Johnsin,  my  coachman — Mr.  Johnsin,  my  old 
friend  Mr.  Fletcher;  now — er — Mr.  Johnsin, 
take  a  load  of  these  children  up  to  Washinnun 
Square — and  don't  put  on  that  pained  Fi'th 
Av'noo  look  if  they  holler  and  scream.  I 
wouldn't  keep  no  carriage,  Mr.  Fletcher,  if  I 
couldn't  do  no  good  with  it.  I  like  to  send 


LOW    DUTCH    AND    HIGH  187 

poor  mothers  and  little  folks  like  these  here, 
and  me  old  girl-friends,  around  in  it — see  ?  My 
Gord  !  I  wisht  I  had  a  carriage-ride  many's  the 
time  when  I  was  a  kid." 

She  turned  to  the  group  of  impatient  boys 
and  girls  who  waited  on  the  flagging. 

"Now,  then,  Clarrie  'n'  Skinny,  youse  can't 
both  go,  'cause  you  slapped  the  girls  'n'  made 
'em  cry  last  time.  Clarrie,  you  can  stay  be 
hind  ;  dirty -faced  again,  after  what  I  told  you. 
Tumble  in,  Eosabelle  an'  Marta,  and  you, 
Bridgy.  Where's  your  little  sister,  Mary 
Ann,  Bridgy  ?  Well — don't  stan'  gapping — 
run  an'  fetch  her.  Youse  can  all  wait  while 
Bridgy  fetches  Mary  Ann.  Did  your  mother 
git  a  gray  wrap  I  sent  her,  Eosabelle  ?  She's 
well,  I  hope ;  that's  good.  Now  be  a  good 
girl.  Mind,  Mr.  Johnsin,  give  7em  a  good 
ride;  drive  slow.  Fetch  'em  back;  then  put 
up  the  horses. 

"Now  come  home  with  me;  I'm  so  glad  to 
have  you,"  she  said  to  Mr.  Fletcher.  "  I  want 
you  should  see  Henny  and  my  baby.  Do  you 
know,  I  never  loved  nothing  and  nobody, 
'cept  meself,  till  two  years  after  I  married 


188  PEOPLE    WE    PASS 

Henny.  Then,  first,  I  fell  in  love  with  baby, 
and  that  must  have  opened  ray  heart  like,  for 
I  got  to  loving  Henny.  You'd  never  thought 
little  Leonie  was  that  kind — spoony,  eh?  I 
ain't  so  little,  now.  Henny  says  I'm  so  big 
he's  scared  I'll  roll  over  on  him  and  smother 
him." 

She  led  Mr.  Fletcher  to  a  doorway  beside  a 
saloon,  and  up  into  a  neat  and  cosey  parlor. 
Then  Henny  had  to  be  called,  and  the  baby 
made  ready,  while  Leonie  disappeared  to  "take 
off  her  things."  In  the  mean  time  Fletcher 

O 

reviewed  his  recollections  of  Leonie's  child 
hood. 

She  was  the  child  of  the  restaurant — "  la 
fille  du  regiment,"  one  young  boarder  dubbed 
her.  When  Fletcher  first  knew  her  she  wore 
her  hair  in  "Dutch  braids" — criss-crossed 
against  her  head.  Even  as  a  tot  she  had  not 
been  flat-figured,  but  was  ripe  and  round  like 
an  Italian  girl -child.  Mudder,  as  Madame 
Metz  was  called,  did  everything  except  bring 
up  Leonie.  She  had  too  much  to  do  to  attend 
to  anything  that  had  legs  of  its  own  to  bring 
itself  up  on.  Leonie  got  about  the  same 


LOW    DUTCH    AND    HIGH  189 

caresses,  slaps,  and  scoldings  as  the  dog  and 
cats.  Mudder  had  for  an  assistant  a  buxom 
niece  called  Car'line,  whose  baby  demanded 
attention  because  its  legs  were  of  no  use  to 
it.  So  it  inhabited  a  clothes-basket  on  the 
kitchen  floor.  Car'line  made  the  beds  and  at 
tended  to  the  slops  and  did  rough  kitchen- 
work,  but  avoided  the  dining-room,  where  no 
waitress  was  needed,  because  every  one  reached 
out  for  himself.  The  dining-room  was  the 
general  parlor,  office,  sitting,  reading,  writing, 
smoking,  and  card  room,  and  Mudder's  sewing- 
room,  and  Leonie's  study-place. 

The  kitchen  was  Mudder's  sanctum.  No 
boarder  ventured  there  except  to  explain  pri 
vately  why  he  could  not  pay  his  board.  There 
the  baby  lived  in  the  basket.  It  was  like 
Car'linein  being  pirikand  chubby,  withanover- 
ripish  way  of  bursting  its  jackets.  Car'line 
was  much  too  busy  to  pet  and  caress  it.  Every 
time  she  happened  by  she  fed  it.  She  looked 
able  to  nurse  an  asylum.  Often  she  came  by 
twice  in  fifteen  minutes,  and  the  baby  got 
two  dinners  practically  at  once,  and  enjoyed 
both.  In  putting  it  back  Car'line  always 


190  PEOPLE    WE    PASS 

tossed  more  toys  into  the  basket,  lest  it  should 
tire  of  those  it  had.  The  toys  were  much 
alike,  being  bits  of  kindling-wood.  When 
Car'line  was  busy  upstairs  for  a  couple  of 
hoars,  making  the  beds,  the  baby  often  cried. 
Its  little  voice  went  ranging  through  the 
house  after  Car'line,  first  filling  the  basement 
floor,  then  climbing  the  bottom  stairs,  and  then 
the  next,  and  the  next,  and  searching  higher 
and  higher  rooms,  until  at  last  it  found 
Car'line. 

"  Madder !"  Car'line  would  call  down ;  "  vot's 
grying — der  papy  ?" 

"  Gott  in  himmel,  yah  !"  Mudder  would  call 
up  ;  "  der  paby  iss  vaking  up  det  beeples." 

"Ach!"  Car'line  would  call  down,  "who 
makes  der  papy  gry  ?" 

"I  dink,"  Mudder  would  call  up,  "may- 
peen  he's  hoongry — der  paby." 

"  Hoongery  ?"  Car'line  would  call  back. 
"  Yhy,  I  yoost  fillt  'im  oop  till  ter  tinner  ran 
hees  mout  out.  Uf  I  come  town  I  lig  him." 

It  was  evident  to  all  the  thinking  boarders 
that  in  much  this  fashion  Leonie's  babyhood 
must  have  been  spent.  Now,  at  fourteen,  she 


LOW    DUTCH    AND    HIGH  191 

was  attending  the  Wooster  Street  school,  play 
ing  in  the  street  in  the  afternoons,  and  study 
ing  at  the  dining-room  table  in  the  evenings. 

That  dining-room  was  a  landmark.  Its  big 
door  and  windows  left  it  open  to  the  street, 
and  when  the  boarders  were  not  seen  around 
the  long  table,  brandishing  French  loaves  a 
yard  long  to  point  what  they  were  saying, 
they  overflowed  up  the  area-steps,  and  up  the 
stoop,  and  on  the  sidewalk.  They  were  nearly 
all  young,  and  either  German,  French,  or 
Alsatian,  like  Mudder,  who  spoke  English, 
French,  and  German  all  at  once — an  uncom 
mon  feat  on  Manhattan  Island,  where,  as  a 
rule,  but  two  languages  are  blended  at  a  time. 

They  were  young  lithographers,  designers, 
wood-carvers,  frescoers,  and,  now  and  then,  a 
cook  out  of  work,  or  a  "  moosicker  "  in  a  theat 
rical  orchestra.  Finding  Mudder  hearty  and 
free,  with  less  prudishness  than  a  camel,  they 
made  her  house  like  one  of  the  clubs  of  the 
tenement  folk,  a  little  freer  than  the  homes, 
as  an  up-town  club  is  a  little  easier-fitting  than 
a  gentleman's  drawing-room.  Theirs  was 
such  untrammelled  speech  as  used  to  be  called 


192  PEOPLE    WE    PASS 

license  in  the  Elizabethan  era,  which  era  sur 
vives  in  a  great  part  of  the  tenement  life  in  so 
far  as  popular  speech  is  concerned.  The 
papers  they  brought  to  Mndder's  were  the 
boldest  from  Paris,  the  pictures  they  drew 
and  passed  around  were  such  as  the  Paris 
press  does  not  quite  dare  to  publish,  and  their 
jokes  were  such  as  coarse  men  whisper  and 
greet  with  loud  guffaws.  They  were  honest, 
hard-working  fellows,  and  Mudder  enjoyed 
seeing  them  happy.  It  was  all  in  the  way  of 
fun,  anyhow.  Yet  this  was  the  home  of  little 
Leonie,  and  all  around,  out-doors,  lay  what  was 
then  the  notorious  "ate"  ward.  Gamblers 
and  wicked  women  paraded  their  splendors. 
The  district  was  "run  wide  open." 

No  one  could  say  how  much  or  little  of 
what  went  on  around  her  was  understood  by 
Leonie — except  as  students  of  street-life  see 
how  children  may  be  good  and  yet  not  inno 
cent.  But  she  was  never  out  of  Mudder's 
mind.  If  a  boarder  spoke  to  Leonie  in  too 
low  a  voice  for  Mudder  to  hear  him,  Mudder 
cried,  "Leaf  der  girl  be,  von't  yer?"  If  a 
man  was  joking  freely  and  Leonie  came  in, 


LOW    DUTCH    AND    HIGH  193 

"  H-s-s-li !"  said  Mudder.     If  she  was  not  in 
stantly  obeyed,  great  was  Mudder's  anger. 

With  Leonie's  growth  into  young  woman 
hood  came  two  indoor  lovers.  They  are  classi 
fied  in  that  way,  because  how  many  hearts  she 
kindled  on  the  pavement  and  in  the  neigh 
borhood  shops  the  boarders  never  knew.  The 
first  of  the  indoor  satellites  was  three  times  her 
age ;  the  second  was  thirty-two,  or  twice  as 
old.  Mr.  Driggs  was  the  older  one — an  Eng 
lishman,  an  employing  printer,  and  reputed  to 
be  rich.  He  was  a  quiet,  masterful  man  when 
sober,  which  was  sometimes.  He  was  less 
quiet  and  more  masterful  when  he  was  soggy. 
The  Irish  of  the  near-by  tenements  called  him 
"  fond,"  for  he  was  so  smitten  by  Leonie's 
charms  of  modesty  and  figure  that  he  left  a 
Broadway  hotel  to  live  amid  the  grease  and 
garlic  and  perspiration  at  Mudder's.  Open 
and  above-board,  he  told  Mudder  at  the  outset 
that  he  meant  to  marry  Leonie  when  she  was 
of  age.  At  the  end  of  the  week  he  gave  Leonie 
her  first  experience  with  a  beau,  taking  her 
to  Booth's  to  hear  one  of  Charlotte  Cushman's 
"  final  farewells"  at  five  dollars  for  a  seat,  and 
12 


194  PEOPLE    WE    PASS 

after  he  had  seen  her  home  in  triumph  to  the 
long  extension-table,  and  had  delivered  her  to 
the  "  family  "  at  checkers,  pinochle,  dorninos, 
and  beer,  he  went  out  and  drank  until  he  had 
just  wit  enough  left  to  reach  the  house  again. 
This  feat  performed,  his  mind  gave  out,  and 
he  undressed  on  the  top  step  of  the  stoop, 
hung  his  clothes  on  the  door-knob,  and  laid 
him  down  to  rest  in  a  single  undergarment 
on  the  stone  slab.  A  policeman  rang  up  M ud 
der,  who  turned  out  all  the  boarders  to  inquire 
of  them  whether  "  in  all  deir  lifes  dey  efl'er 
haired  uf  such  a  dings  ?"  She  commanded  the 
battalion  to  dress  Mr.  Driggs,  and  admit  him 
in  full  attire,  as  became  the  dignity  of  her 
house.  And  after  that,  whenever  Driggs  spoke 
matrimonially,  she  used  to  say  :  "  Keeb  gwiet, 
vill  yer  ?  Shtill  vorters  make  no  noise.  Der 
less  beeple  say  der  more  dime  dey  got  for 
dinking.  Blendy  time  for  marriage — und  all 
such  rubbitch." 

The  younger  lover  of  Leonie  was  a  baby- 
faced,  curly-haired,  rosy  Lorrainischer,dubbed 
Prinz  Monaco,  because  he  asked  a  boarder  to 
play  pinochle  for  a  dollar  a  game,  or  twenty 


LOW    DUTCH    AND    HIGH  195 

times  the  limit  at  Mudder's.  He  began  by 
borrowing  $300  of  Madder  to  buy  out  a  paper- 
flower-maker's  business.  Her  sign -board  re 
mained  on  the  premises,  and  so  did  she  —  a 
jolly  Frenchwoman,  whose  three  nieces  were 
the  "hands"  of  the  shop.  The  boarders 
thought  he  had  pocketed  Mudder's  money 
and  the  flower-works  besides. 

The  suitors  came  nearly  together,  and  in  the 
second  week  Mr.  Driggs  asked  Leonie  to  ac 
company  him  to  hear  Booth.  His  tastes  were 
too  cultivated  Leonie  explained  that  the 
Prinz  had  invited  her  to  "Tony's"  Varieties, 
which  she  liked  better.  Off.  she  went  with 
the  curly-pated  scamp,  and  the  elderly  Driggs 
anchored  himself  at  home  and  drank  steadily. 
When  the  Prinz  returned  with  Leonie  and  a 
great  honeyed  smile,  then  up  rose  Mr.  Driggs 
and  spoke : 

"  Sir,"  said  he,  "  hand  that  young  girl  over 
to  me,  and  give  an  account  of  how  you  have 
behaved  towards  her." 

"  Go  tririk  yourselluf  det,"  said  the  Prinz, 
most  contemptuously. 

"  I  ask  you  one — hie — once,"  said  Driggs. 


196  PEOPLE    WE    PASS 

"  I  as — hie — ask  you  twice.  I  ask  you  thry — 
hie — thrice." 

"Ach,  you  mek  me  mooch  tired,"  said 
the  Prinz. 

Whack!  Mr.  Driggs  reached  up — he  was 
short  and  spare  and  the  Prinz  was  tall  and  big 
— and  slapped  his  face  so  hard  that  it  seemed 
as  though  every  boarder's  heart  and  Mudder's 
and  Leonie's  stopped  beating. 

The  Prinz  threw  up  a  bent  arm,  staggered 
backward,  and — burst  into  tears.  He  groped 
his  way  to  the  dining-table  and  flung  himself 
half  across  it,  and  sobbed  like  a  baby. 

"  Shame  !  shame  !  trunken  Inglish  !"  cried 
several  boarders. 

"  Humph !"  exclaimed  Leonie ;  "  seems  a  little 
English  is  better  than  a  lot  of  German." 

Mr.  Driggs  swelled  with  pride.  "  You'll 
understand  which  escort  to  choose  next  time, 
I  hope,"  said  he. 

"  Yes,"  said  she,  astounded  at  this  turn ; 
u  and  'twunt  be  either  of  youse."  She  swept 
out  of  the  room  with  a  saucy  "good-night, 
all,"  and  Driggs  sat  down,  crushed  and  un 
happy.  A  little  later,  when  Mudder  was  roll- 


LOW    DUTCH    AND    HIGH  197 

ing  up  her  sleeves  for  bed,  so  as  to  have  them 
ready  for  work  next  morning,  Driggs  went  to 
her  and  whispered  :  "  Take  care  of  this  watch 
and  money.  Don't  worry  if  I'm  away  a  few 
days.  I'm  a  bit  out  of  sorts,  and  I'm  er- 
going — er — I'm  going — 

"  Yhere  you're  going  ?" 

"Er-fishing,  mum." 

"  Don't  foolyourselluf,"  said  Mudder.  "Bed- 
der  you  go  to  bed  ;  dake  my  adwice." 

Often  afterwards  he  went  upon  such  "  peri 
odicals,"  always  giving  his  valuables  and 
money  in  Mudder's  charge,  with  some  lame 
explanation  of  his  conduct. 

To  her  oldest  boarders  Mudder  whispered 
that  there  was  no  fear  of  Leonie's  "  making  any 
humbuck  peezness  mit  marrying  him.  She 
hades  der  sighd  uf  herselluf  vhen  she  is  wit' 
him."  But  to  Driggs  she  said:  "Who  tolt 
you  she  ton'd  lige  you  ?  Keeb  gwied  und  vait. 
She's  on'y  a  shild." 

Perhaps  her  kind  heart  prompted  this  du 
plicity.  Perhaps  she  shrewdly  planned  that 
Leonie  should  keep  every  friend  she  had. 

There  came  to  Mudder's  a  pallid  German 


198  PEOPLE    WE    PASS 

youth,  little  more  than  a  lad,  who  tried  very 
hard  to  make  his  way  by  reporting  for  the 
Staats  Zeitung,  but  he  was  so  weak  and  fre 
quently  ill  that  he  could  not  earn  the  needed 
five  dollars  a  week  for  Mudder.  He  gave  up 
his  room  and  went  to  sleep  with  four  others 
in  a  stuffy  inside  room  in  a  tenement,  paying 
fifteen  cents  a  night.  lie  contracted  to  pay 
Mudder  three  dollars  for  board,  and  rested  in 
the  dining-room  for  days  together,  too  weak 
to  work.  He  was  a  loving,  lovable  invalid, 
who  awakened  more  tenderness  in  Mudder 
than  her  self-reliant  daughter  ever  drew  forth. 
Once,  when  he  fancied  he  was  dying,  he  told 
Mudder  he  was  of  good  birth,  and  showed  her 
letters  with  his  (Schwarzwald)  family  arms  at 
top,  and  his  wallet  and  cigar-case  with  their 
crest  upon  them.  "There  are  eight  of  us 
boys,"  he  said,  "all  counts  of  no  'count,  as 
you  say  in  America." 

"  Yell,  you  can't  help  dot,"  said  Mudder;  but 
she  was  very  proud  of  him,  and  spread  his 
secret.  Deliberately  she — the  thriftiest  dollar- 
hunter  in  the  ward — sat  down  to  lose  money 
to  him  at  cards,  to  enable  him  to  pay  his  way. 


LOW    DUTCH    AND    HIGH  199 

But  luck  was  against  her  in  being  forever 
with  her.  Moreover,  he  was  a  wretched,  inat 
tentive  gamester,  so  that,  do  her  worst,  she 
almost  always  won.  The  experiment  all  but 
wrecked  her  temper.  The  more  she  won  the 
more  cross  she  became,  and  her  play  was  ac 
companied  by  a  running  fire  of  donnerwetter- 
ing  and  sacre-noming,  and  even  Gottfer  dam- 
ing.  He  was  alarmed  at  his  fate,  and  gently 
eluded  her  for  causing  him  to  add  to  his  debts. 
Then  she  took  to  dropping  a  five-dollar  bill, 
now  and  then,  in  his  bedroom,  and  lurking 
about  the  halls  like  a  cat  to  watch  lest 
Car'line  should  enter  the  room  first  and  find 
the  money  and  keep  it.  But  this  only  gave 
the  gentle  youth  the  trouble  of  bringing  the 
bills  to  Car'line,  for  her  to  find  their  owner. 
And  Mudder  was  obliged  to  lock  Car'line  in  a 
hall-bedroom,  and  almost  shake  the  bills  out  of 
her  clothing,  for  Car'line  was  poor  and  needy, 
in  both  pocket  and  soul,  arid  denied  all  knowl 
edge  of  the  mono}7  until  Mudder  bethought 
her  to  lie  and  say  that  young  Schwarzwald 
told  her  he  had  given  the  bills  to  Car' 
line. 


200  PEOPLE    WE    PASS 

At  last  Madder  ordered  Leonie  to  apply  to 
Schwarzwald  to  be  taught  hoch-Deutsch,  and 
she  told  the  youth  she  had  money  in  her  own 
right  with  which  to  pay  him.     He  believed 
her,  and  there  was  begun    a  long  series  of 
afternoon  and  evening  lessons,  which  brought 
trying  work  and  delicate  tasks  to  him,  because 
he  sought  to  correct  her  gaucheries  and  her 
English  the  while  he  taught  her  pure  German. 
To  her  the  seances  must  have  been  revelations 
of  a  cultivated  delicacy  of  mind  and  bearing 
such  as  she  had  obtained  no  glimpses  of  ex 
cept  vaguely  in  the  best  schools  of  the  peo 
ple — the  theatres.     So  Mudder  paid  his  board 
and  got  her  money  back,  minus   the  cost  of 
his  food.     His   bearing   towards  Leonie  was 
purely  that  of  a  teacher.     He  showed  her  less 
tenderness,  perhaps,  than    any  man  she   had 
ever  known,  yet  he  was  grateful  to  her,  and 
told   her,  solemnly,  that   she    had   stayed  his 
hand  from  suicide.     In  the  mean  time  she  was 
fought  over  by  Prinz  Monaco  and  old  Driggs, 
except  when  Driggs  was  on   his  periodicals, 
when  the  Prinz  (whom  she  detested)  courted 
her  so  fiercely,  with  such  a  gleam  in  his  eyes 


LOW    DUTCH    AND    HIGH  201 

and  such  a  note  in  his  voice  that  poor  old 
Mudder  was  alarmed. 

"  He  owns  me  mooch  money,"  said  she, 
"  und  I  ton'd  tare  get  mat  wit  him.  Yot  I 
shall  done  I  can'd  tink." 

The  problem  might  have  plagued  her  slow 
mind  for  months  —  who  can  say  how  long? 
But  the  Prinz  grew  bolder  with  Leonie,  and 

O  / 

thus  goaded  Mudder  into  a  wonderful  act — a 
bit  of  true  heroism,  such  as  should  almost 
entitle  her  memory  to  a  monument. 

She  married  the  Prinz  ! 

"  Ach  Gott  /"  said  she,  to  the  older  boarders  ; 
"he  is  noding  but  rnbbitch,  but  I  can'd  bear 
to  see  him  aronnt  Leonie  wit  his  vicked, 
handsome  face  und  his  tee-ayter  talk  und  his 
double  meanings.  So  he  is,  any  vay,  only  after 
my  two  tousand  tollars  vhich  I  got  safed  up, 
tint  I  tolt  him  so,  und  I  tolt  him  der  gwickest 
vay  to  get  it  vos  to  dake  me  wit  it.  I  am 
dwice  so  olt  as  he — more  as  a  madder  by  him  ; 
so,  maypeen,  I  can  mannitch  him.  Yell,  ve 
done  it,  anyhow ;  now  ve  see  vot  ve  shall  see." 

On  the  night  of  the  wedding-day  a  keg  of 
lager  was  set  up  in  the  dining-room,  with  a  bot- 


202  PEOPLE    WE    PASS 

tie  of  kimmel  and  a  box  of  cigars  on  the  man 
tel-piece,  and  everybody  drank  to  the  red-faced, 
stout  old  bride  in  widow's  weeds  and  to  the 
shame-faced  bridegroom,  who  was  the  first  to 
grow  thick-tongued  and  unsteady  on  his  feet. 
All  were  happy — until  Mr.  Driggs  came  in. 

"Trink  to  der  marritch,"  cried  Car'line, 
who  had  ventured  among  the  boarders. 

"  That  I  will,"  said  Driggs.  "  Here's  God 
help  poor  old  Mudder.  Here's  the  devil  take 
the  loafer  she  has  married.  Here's  long  life 
to  one  good  friend  of  the  bride,  who'll  stick 
to  her  like  cobbler's  wax.  Ladies  and  gentle 
men,  I  drink  to  the  bride  and  myself." 

There  were  hisses  and  shouts  of  disapproval, 
and  the  fuddled  bridegroom  stood  up  and  de 
clared  the  house  his,  and  ordered  Driggs  to 
"  back  up  und  vent  avay  "  ;  but  he  ruined  the 
impressiveness  of  his  words  by  whirling 
around  like  a  weathercock,  and  falling  into 
his  chair  with  his  face  towards  it  instead  of 
his  back. 

At  midnight  the  great  bride-cake,  made  by 
a  former  boarder,  now  cook  at  Delmonico's, 
was  cut  into  thirty-four  pieces,  one  for  each 


LOW    DUTCH    AND    HIGH  203 

person  in  the  room.  All  ate  their  portions 
slowly  except  Driggs,  who  ground  his  in  his 
fingers  the  quicker  to  find  the  prophetic  ring. 
But  it  was  in  Leonie's  piece. 

"  See,  Mudder,"  said  she  ;  "  I  am  the  next 
.to  marry !" 

"And  Mudder  burst  into  tears — the  first 
that  any  one  had  ever  seen  her  shed  in 
America. 

"  I'm  glad  von  vay,"  said  she.  "  Gott  knows 
I  done  my  best  for  you,  Leonie.  Yet  I'm 
frightened  for  vhat's  to  come." 

"  Der  drubble  is  mit  Mudder  dot  she  got  too 
much  'motchination,"  said  Car'line.  "  'Motch- 
ination  ain't  no  good  ;  dot's  vot  makes  folks 
grazy." 

"  Sure,"  said  the  policeman  on  the  beat, 
who  scented  the  feasting  and  dropped  in  at 
the  risk  of  losing  three  days'  pay ;  "  imagi- 
nashun  does  bate  the  divvle.  Oi  have  a  frind 
wid  so  much  imaginashun  that  he  can  shmell 
sewer-gas  in  a  Pullman  caar." 

Within  a  month  after  the  marriage  the 
Prinz,  resplendent  in  lavender  trousers  and 
wearing  a  pound  of  gold  on  his  waistcoat  and 


204  PEOPLE    WE    PASS 

fingers,  was  reported  to  be  frequently  seen  in 
a  shiny  new  wagon  with  the  former  proprie 
tress  of  the  flower  factory.  Yet  the  Prinz 
loafed  at  home  a  great  deal,  and,  asserting  his 
rights  as  head  of  the  house,  used  to  sit  at  the 
other  side  of  Leonie  when  she  was  taking  her 
lessons  from  Schwarzwald.  Thus  placed  his 
eyes  devoured  her  (her  coldest  shoulder  was 
all  she  gave  him  for  consumption),  and  spoke 
to  her  often  in  a  lo\y  voice.  She  was  frigidly 
civil  between  her  fear  of  the  man  and  her 
sense  of  duty  to  him  in  his  new  relation.  On 
one  evening,  when  the  Prinz  was  thus  employ 
ed,  when  the  room  was  full  of  card  and  checker 
playing  groups,  and  when  Mudder  was  elbow- 
deep  in  dish -washing  in  the  kitchen,  young 
Schwarzwald  arose,  paler  than  ever  before, 
arid  asking  to  be  excused  for  a  moment,  went 
out  and  up  to  his  tenement  bedroom.  He 
passed  through  to  the  kitchen  when  he  re 
turned. 

"  Mudder,"  said  he,  "  I  burchased  dis  pistol 
vhen  I  dought  I  could  not  face  my  debts  ;  but 
now  I  got  a  bedder  use  for  it.  Your  husband 
is  not  fit  to  lif.  He  vill  not  bersecute  Miss 


LOW    DUTCH    AND    HIGH  205 

Leonie  von  single  hour  more.  He  has  not 
shtopped  vid  marritch — now  I  shtop  him.  I 
dell  you  pecause  you  should  know  it.  To  der 
resd  der  beeples  vot  I  do  is  my  peezness. 
Come  und  see." 

The  sickly  boy  dragged  himself,  rather  than 
walked,  back  to  the  dining-room,  carrying  his 
revolver  behind  his  back,  until  he  faced  the 
man  who  had  so  disturbed  him.  Then  he 
raised  the  weapon  and  levelled  it  at  the 
Prinz. 

"  Say,  du"  said  he ;  and  then  he  staggered 
backward  from  weakness,  and  while  fumbling 
for  a  chair-back  with  which  to  steady  himself, 
called  to  Driggs.  "  Holt  me  up,"  said  he  ;  "  I 
am.  not  gwite  strong — so,"  as  Driggs  put  a 
firm  hand  under  each  arm-pit — "choost  like 
dot,  a  minute,  blease."  Then  he  again  ad 
dressed  the  Prinz,  in  German  : 

"  With  this  weapon  I  swear  to  kill  you  if 
you  do  not  leave  this  house.  Arm  yourself  if 
you  will,  and  we  will  fight.  Bah  !  You  are  a 
cur,  and  dare  not  fight,  yet  will  I  kill  you  if 
you  stay  here  an  hour  longer.  I  have  weighed 
what  I  say  and  what  I  mean  to  do.  I  will  be 


206  PEOPLE    WE    PASS 

glad  to  hang  for  putting  such  a  rascal  out  of 
the  way.  Go  !  or,  bei  Gott,  I  will  slay  you  like 
a  dog  !" 

"  Mudder !"  the  Prinz  cried,  trembling  like 
an  aspen  leaf  and  retreating  towards  his  burly 
wife,  who  stood  in  the  kitchen  doorway  wip 
ing  her  boiled  arms  with  her  blue-checked 
apron.  "Mudder!  He's  grazy  !  Slitop  him  !" 

"Vait  a  leedle,"  said  Mudder.  "Leonie,  is 
somedings  true  vot  I  hear?" 

"  Oh,  Mudder,  he  won't  never  leave  me  be." 

"  So,"  said  Mudder.  "  Husband  no  longer ; 
you  are  nodding  but  rubbitch.  Glear  owd,  uf 
you  ton'd  vant  to  get  holesfull  of  bullets  in 
your  skin.  I  vosh  myselluf  of  you." 

So  he  went,  cowering  under  the  cover  of 

'  O 

Schwarzwald's  pistol.  And  with  him  went 
every  dollar  of  Mudder's  savings  —  and  the 
former  proprietress  of  the  flower- works." 

"  It  vos  a  goot  chob,"  was  the  most  that 
Mudder  said. 

The  next  startling  occurrence  in  the  board 
ing-house  was  Mudder's  death.  She  failed  rap 
idly  and  visibly  even  while  she  worked  on  like 
a  horse,  cooking  and  carrying  enormous  sal- 


LOW    DUTCH    AND    HIGH  207 

vers  of  delicious  ragouts  and  fruit  puddings  to 
the  still  lively  company  in  the  dining-room. 
But  one  morning  she  did  not  come  down,  and 
Car'line  cooked  with  the  aid  of  Leonie,  who 
stayed  from  school.  Mudder  sent  for  Mr. 
Driggs,  and  feebly  pulling  her  great  red  hand 
from  under  the  cloud  of  down  that  topped 
her  bed,  she  took  the  Englishman's  hand. 

"  You  luf  her  drue  ?"  she  asked. 

"  Like  a  blooming  old  fool,"  said  he. 

"  Dot's  righd,"  said  Mudder.  "  Now,  I  ask 
you  somedings.  She's  too  young  to  dink 
aboud  luf,  u nd  uf  she  shouldn't  luf  you  blease 
be  a  farder  to  her,  yoost  der  same,  hem  ?" 

"  I  will,  'pon  my  honor,"  said  Driggs,  who 
felt  that  this  was  his  last  talk  with  this  ex 
traordinary  woman.  And  yet  he  bethought 
him  of  himself.  "  But  if  I  can  make  her  love 
me—" 

A  smile  broke  over  the  dying  woman's 
face. 

"  Dot's  righd,"  said  she.  "  You  men  are 
all  conceited  like  monkeys — but  dot's  righd. 
Uf  you  can  make  her  luf  you  —  yes,  dot's 
righd." 


208  PEOPLE    WE    PASS 

To  Leonie  slie  said,  afterwards :  "  Mr. 
Driggs  looks  afder  der  house  und  you  und 
Car'line.  Blease  mind  vot  he  says  till  you 
get  a  goot  man,  Leonie  ;  but  vhen  he  talks  luf 
und  foolishness,  gif  him  no  satisfactions.  He 
is  too  olt — und  he's  a  trunkard." 

"  You  ne'enter  fear,  Mudder,"  said  Leonie. 

"  Yot  abowd  young  Schwarzwald,  Leonie  ?" 

"  He's  mad  at  me,"  said  the  girl.  "  I  told 
him  I  had  no  more  money  since  der  Prinz  ran 
away,  and  he  seen  through  our  trick,  and  he's 
ate  up  with  shame.  He's  got  money  from 
home  to  fetch  him  to  his  father  that's  dying, 
and  he  wanted  I'd  take  the  money  and  leave 
him  stay  here  and  work  for  more.  So  then  I 
was  hot,  and  I  told  him  he  had  worked  for  his 
money,  and  I  could  work  for  mine  if  I  wanted 
any.  He'll  be  sailing  pretty  quick,  you'll  see." 

"  Dot's  de  last  of  him,"  said  Mudder. 
"  Yell,  ve  done  righd  by  him,  tank  Gott." 

The  house  lost  its  head  and  heart,  which 
had  been  her  shrewd  head  and  gr.eat  heart. 
Mr.  Fletcher  never  knew  what  became  of 
Leonie  until  the  day  with  which  this  story 
begins. 


LOW    DUTCH    AND    HIGH  209 

"  Leonie,"  he  asked,  "  whom  did  you  marry  ? 
Who  is  Henny  ?" 

"  Hear  that !"  she  cried.  "  Who's  Henny  ? 
Who  should  he  be  but  Mr.  Schwartzwald  ? 
Tlie  sickly  one,  you  remember.  He  fell  into 
a  little  fortune  and  sailed  'round  the  world  for 
his  health.  He  got  it,  sure.  His  arm's  as 
big  as  your  leg.  And,  say,  he's  ter  good  ter 
live.  And  I  say,  Mr.  Fletcher,  I'm  a  count 
ess — see  ?" 


THE    END 


BY   RICHARD    HARDING   DAVIS 


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